Precipitation
by VanessaGalore
Summary: Even the weather seems to be against Veronica...Post-season 3. The story continues: Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Caution: Reviews contain major spoilers
1. Chapter 1: Precipitation

**TITLE:** Precipitation**  
AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTER:** Veronica  
**WORD COUNT:** 2174  
**RATING:** R  
**SUMMARY:** Even the weather seems to be against Veronica.  
**SPOILERS:** Vague spoilers for the whole series.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility. Inspired by Mini-Challenge #2 at the Dreamwidth community 'vmfictitious' and the "torrent" prompt at the 'inkstains' Dreamwidth community. (See my profile for more info on vmfictitious.)

* * *

The peculiar whoosh of tires meeting wet pavement—a murmuring unheard for months. Slicked cobblestones and umbrellas half-bent, awkwardly wielded. A sunlit expanse taunts from beyond, with a rainbow threatening.

I will not cry. This little drop on my cheek? It's not a tear. It's rain. It's definitely rain.

A lady brushes against me, her umbrella spewing water on me. I deserve this. I deserve to be soaked; I'm nothing. She hurries on, oblivious.

What the hell...it never rains in Neptune.

Why didn't I bring an umbrella?

What does it matter? It's just a little rain. A trickle works its way down my neck, insidious, uncomfortable. My hair adheres to my scalp, the ponytail a sodden weight on my collar.

A man, clearly annoyed at the inconvenient weather, barrels toward me. His glance slides over me and then returns, fixed and knowing.

Is he picturing me naked and cheering? Or maybe he recognizes me as the daughter of the twice-disgraced sheriff? I avoid his eyes and turn, pretending to look at the display in the window. My eyes unfocus; the tchotchkes blur and disappear.

It's burned into my retinas: "Prosecutor files charges against Mars."

My shoes are ruined, these cute little Jimmy Choos I saved weeks for.

And I don't care.

•••••

Finally I reach the sanctity of my car. I can have a meltdown in private, but now that I'm here, the tears refuse to come. I pull out my cell, and my finger hovers over "3".

How do I protect him? What do I do? What have I done?

I imagine Logan, beaten and bleeding, or maybe even dead. If I'm lucky, just a few new scars on his face to match the ones he keeps hidden with long sleeves. I think about the faint white lines etched on Logan's back, a graph of daddy dearest's excoriations. Aaron's cruel voice, forever whispering in Logan's ear, twisting the truth, "See what you made me do?"

Yesterday is still a blur of adrenaline and regret. Again...again, I try to think what I could have done differently.

A moment of pure exultation when Logan glanced at me, bloody and triumphant, and a lifetime of dread to follow.

Yes, see what I made him do?

Of course he pummeled Gory. Did I really expect anything else?

_Stupid, stupid, STUPID Veronica.  
_  
I tap the "3" key lightly, trying to find the courage to dial. Yeah, "3". I never changed it on my phone; I pretended that I forgot to delete it. But I didn't forget. I couldn't take him off speed dial. I know that makes me pathetic. Or hopeful. Or deluded. Or something.

You never quite get over the first boy who saves you from a gun-wielding, psychotic rapist-slash-mass murderer.

A firm press, because I am NOT a coward. Five rings, and it goes to voice mail. "You've reached Logan Echolls. 'It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes...we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions—especially selfish ones.' Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Leave a message after the—"

Panic—because it's so fucking true. I thumb the "send" key to disconnect.

The bile hits the back of my throat, and I pant a little, trying not to throw up.

When the hell did he get so wise?

•••••

At Neptune Memorial Hospital, there's no one admitted under the name of Echolls. I drive to Good Samaritan in a blur. Wipers thud, thud, thud, the water swirling at the base of the windshield. I just barely avoid an accident with another Southern Californian who sucks at driving in the rain. At Good Samaritan, the triage nurse looks at me with pity as she shakes her head 'no'.

Back in the car, I try his cell again. Straight to voice mail now...what the hell does that mean? He's safe, just avoiding me? He's dead, lying in a ditch? Or floating under the Coronado?

I will the phone to ring. Call me...tell me you're okay. And then I pray it won't. Don't tell me, I don't want to know he's—

I realize: My whole life, it's going to be panic and fear every time the phone rings.

Rivulets of water pool on my car windows; a thousand fingers tap on the roof. How do people in Seattle do it? I feel drenched, waterlogged. All those negative ions are doing _something_ to me.

I let myself fantasize about ways to murder Gory. A hit and run. Swap his Tylenol for something more deadly. A pipe bomb, with a timer, Wallace would help me to—

_There you go again, Veronica. Brilliant idea, get your best friend involved in a murder scheme._

I imagine Wallace, naked from the waist up, being shocked by a device around his neck while they interrogated him. He didn't even hesitate when I asked—my friends always jump to help me.

Wait...is Gory going to go after Wallace too? He's going to realize...he's going to put it together...

What do I do? Do we all go into witness protection? All my friends—

Oh fuck.

Mac.

Mac helped me with the hard drive. Would Mr. Kane figure out that I would have had help...? Is Gory going to...? Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Try to breathe, try to breathe, try to bre—

A motherfucking _thunderclap_! All those times I took God's name in vain...maybe I should head to St. Mary's and—

_You are so full of it, Veronica. You aren't important enough for God to worry about. Like you confessing to God would convince him of anything!_

"No. Just Veronica Mars. What a disappointment."

Another rumble of far-off thunder, and a deluge of water pours from the skies.

•••••

Somehow I drive to the beach. I slot the gearshift into park and turn off the key.

It's _still_ fucking raining. Without the wipers battling the rainfall, the water flows unimpeded down the windshield. I watch as the drips follow some map that only they understand.

I pick a little at my ruined, disintegrating shoes—collateral damage from my recklessness.

Six pm...I turn on the radio. "Early results are in for the Balboa County Special Election, and it's a landslide. With 88% of the votes counted, Van Lowe is projected to win the sheriff's office with 71% to 18% for Mars. The Balboa County Prosecutor's Office released a statement that they've suspended Sheriff Mars's private investigator's license while investigating claims of ethics violations. In other news—" I twisted the knob, practically snapping it off.

_Did you really think your dad had any chance, Veronica? Good job, kid. You found out who made the video, after it already went viral and the whole fucking world saw it (thank you, Dick), but you can't do a goddamn thing to them, and you broke about fourteen federal statutes in the process. So your dad had to save your ass again and give up the job he loved._

I abandon my shoes and step out of the car. Wet sand sifts between my toes. Good memories then: mom and dad and me playing in the waves, me and Logan in Catalina, me and Backup playing Frisbee, me and Wallace flying remote control planes.

I'm saturated in a few seconds, hair plastered to my scalp, every bit of clothing drenched—I feel like the rain is soaking into my pores. I'd slosh if you could hear it over the dull roar of precipitation.

At the edge of the ocean, I stand with the waves lapping at the hems of my jeans. I'd thought that I was already waterlogged, but the fabric becomes heavier, wraps itself insidiously, somehow sticky on my legs...how can wetness be sticky?

The ocean is slate-blue—a color I didn't know existed—all dark and turbulent, throbbing with lacy edges of froth and unease. A solitary insane windsurfer soars far offshore, tumbling and spinning. He catches a gust and sails impossibly fast. The board skims a mogul of steep-sloped wave, almost a flip!, before flailing onto the waves in defeat. A moment of terror (do I call for help?), and then a head appears above the surge, followed by a body hoisting itself onto the board to try again. An expert twist of the sail and the board flies off downwind, disappearing from sight.

I wade in a little. It's warm and cold at once, with pinpricks of rain on my exposed skin. Almost clinically, I note the goose flesh as my body reacts automatically. The sand shifts beneath my feet, and I stumble and shuffle, regaining my balance.

A steel-colored sky looms, with no evidence of the sunset that should be imminent. I search my memory—'nimbostratus', I think. The dense and ominous billows press against the sea, with tinges of whiteness betraying the sun's futile attempts to break through the clouds.

I step forward into the turbulence. A rush of water surrounds my legs, sucking me down, pulling me in. I lurch back, onto the uncertain sands and the unsteadiness of the verge, with the eddies taunting me and the waves lapping at me hungrily.

A voice...no, voices.

"There she is!"

I turn and see them. Dad, Logan, and Wallace. Dad hurries to me, ignoring the water lapping at his feet (we're a fine couple of gumshoes, I think, ridiculously). He bundles me into his arms and whispers hoarsely, "I've been so worried about you. Where have you been?" He pulls me onto the shore and urges me toward the parking lot. The four of us, bedraggled, make slow progress through the harsh wind.

I'm embarrassed by how wet I am. It's nonsensical. Of course I'm wet. I've been standing outside in the rain. I've been wading in the ocean. Of course I'm soaked. Now Logan's talking and I struggle to listen.

"When you didn't show up for dinner, your dad called me. I told him you called me twice but didn't leave a message."

"I've been calling you. Why didn't you answer?" Dad asks.

I realize how scared he was. How scared he is. Fumbling for my phone, I look at the screen. The battery's dead...I've been meaning to get a replacement. "My phone died." I show him; it's somehow important that he believe me.

"Oh honey."

I look at his face, and then at Logan's. And then I look at Wallace, who's been uncharacteristically quiet. He mutters, "We've been worried about you, Vee."

And then I get it. They've talked. They know _everything_. I search their faces. I wonder if Dad's seen the video, and I cringe. Between the three of them, they have the whole sordid story.

Dad says, "We'll figure it out. We're going to be safe."

"Mac..." I whisper. "She helped—"

"That's what I thought," he replies with a nod. "She's at the house, working the phones."

I look at Logan. "I went to the hospitals...I thought..."

"No, I'm okay. I haven't been back to the Grand. Your dad said he'd find me a place to crash." Logan's familiar face regards me with concern, just a little swollen from the altercation in the food court, but basically unscarred. "I'll drive her back in the Saturn," he suggests, and my dad nods.

Dad puts me in the passenger seat of my car, pulling the seat belt over and buckling it, and I flash back to being five years old, still only 34 pounds and 39 inches tall, so California law said I still had to be in a child safety seat. I begged and pleaded, and Dad said, "It's the law, Veronica—maybe you should eat more," as he strapped me in against my will.

And then I picture this man who loved the law, who lived for upholding the law, breaking it to save me. I don't quite know what he did—it's clear to me that he thinks it's better if I don't know—but last night he said, "There's nothing to worry about, Veronica. We don't ever need to talk about it again."

I tremble a little, and Dad sweeps a hand across my brow. "It's going to be okay, Veronica."

Logan picks up my sodden shoes and puts them behind the seat. He starts up the car as my dad shuts the passenger door. We drive back to Sunset Cliffs, and Logan holds out his hand for me. I take it, and he squeezes hard.

I look in the side view mirror, and I see Dad and Wallace following in Dad's sedan. "I— I'm...—" I'm stuttering, blathering. "I, uh, wonder...do you think it's ever going to stop raining?"

"Yeah, this rain is ridiculous." A quick glance at me, and I wonder what he's really thinking. His thumb slides across the back of my hand, and I think how much I've missed that casual gesture. Flippant, as always, he says, "Don't you know it never rains in Southern California?"


	2. Chapter 2: Precarious

**TITLE:** Precarious (2/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTER:** Veronica  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,110  
**RATING:** PG-13 for only one use of the f-bomb, a personal record for me.**  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back': a sequel to my fic 'Precipitation'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Very mild cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling, who's being really patient with me lately. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

_RECAP OF PRECIPITATION: After voting, Veronica got in her car and wallowed in the drenching rain. She worried about Logan's safety and what was going to happen to her dad. More importantly, she had a moment of realization about how incredibly reckless she had been. After learning that her dad *had* in fact lost the election, she ends up at beach, wading into the ocean and standing in the rain, almost incognizant of her condition. Logan, Keith, and Wallace find her there, soaking wet, and tell her they were worried and everything's going to be okay. Driving back to Sunset Cliffs, Logan takes her hand; they can't actually talk about what they're feeling, and instead he tells her, "Don't you know it never rains in Southern California?"_

* * *

"I still say we go to the police." Logan's hand, fussing at his scalp, has become practically a nervous tic. He paces, trying to contain all that violence and rage that threatens to explode. Is it in his DNA? I wonder, and then I'm ashamed of myself for thinking it.

"You mean the FBI," I correct him automatically. I ignore the ache in my stomach, a nagging symptom of my distress whenever I let myself think about my career in the FBI, gone forever. That stupid internship that meant so much to me—it's completely dead in the water with the rumors of Dad covering up my criminal misdeeds.

This past semester, I'd made up my mind that the FBI was going to be my life, but now? Who knows. I can't even go there yet—can't even picture what my future might be like now. "Logan, we'd have to go to the FBI, not the police. The organized crime division, to be exact."

"Whatever." He's pissed. He hates it when I go all semantic. "Veronica. We have to." His face, lined with worry, betrays a hint of what old age will do to that visage. There's a subtle hoarseness in his voice, perhaps that latent, inevitable conviction that the world always hurts him. The nightmares still torment him, even though Aaron's been dead close to a year. It's his baseline: Glass half-empty. Never half-full.

Although—am I really one to talk?

Logan's phone vibrates. He looks at the display with a frown and takes the call. "Hello...Yeah, this is Logan...Wait, _what_?"

_Now what? Can this day get any worse?_

He listens intently. "That's fine...Ah, yeah, uh, thanks for letting me know...Yeah, I appreciate it." He thumbs the 'send' button almost absent-mindedly, avoiding my gaze.

"What happened? Logan...what happened?"

"You know that blue glass fish sculpture-thing above my bed at the Grand?"

"You mean that ugly blue thing that I hate? Yes, I'm familiar with the item." I realize I'm even testier than usual.

"Someone got into my suite and broke it. It's in pieces on the bed. Somebody complained to Tina the manager about loud voices and the sound of something breaking."

"Someone got into your suite," I echo faintly.

"Yeah, and, uh, Tina said they also pissed all over the bed. Subtle, right?"

"Oh god, Logan...what are we going to do?"

Logan shakes his head. He's made it very clear what he wants to do. But it's not that simple. Dad's in trouble too, and going to the police might make it worse.

Dad's still on the phone. He's called five people—close friends at the D.A.'s office, a sympathetic reporter, a court services officer on his softball team, and Cliff. A low voice—he doesn't want us to hear what he's saying—surreptitious glances at us when he thinks we're not looking. I glance at the clock on the wall: 10:04pm. He cradles the phone and sighs.

"Dad?" _Please, Daddy, make it okay,_ I think.

He shakes his head, and lays it out for us. "It's called spoliation of evidence. And obstruction of justice."

What did he do?...I wish he'd tell me.

He meets my pleading eyes and looks away. Vaguely, he explains. "There was...videographic evidence. And an accident in the evidence storage room."

"An accident?"

"A technical malfunction of a recording device, and some issues with the chain of custody. I tried to document the incident, but..."

I've seen him lie to other people—an essential skill when he was a PI—but never to me. And he sucks at it, and knows it.

"It doesn't matter," I fib. "What does Cliff say?"

"Vinnie's going to make an issue out of it. And the DA's up for reelection in November. He's going to press for felony obstruction of justice. You know they yanked my PI license. There's some talk that they want to lift yours as well, but that's a little more complicated."

"Ff-_felony_? You mean...jail time? Prison?"

Logan interrupts. "Let's just get the fuck out of Neptune. You know you can't get a fair trial here, Mr. Mars. Let's just—"

"You're actually suggesting that I go on the lam?" Terse. Sarcastic, but there's an edge to Dad's voice, and I realize he actually might be considering this.

Mac clears her throat. She and Wallace have been listening silently, perched on the barstools in the kitchen next to the living room. "Mr. Mars, stop dancing around, and spell it out! We all know Veronica broke into Jake Kane's house and stole a hard drive. There was some evidence, I'm betting a security camera, right?"

Barreling ahead, Mac blurts out the words we all know to be true. "And you destroyed it to protect Veronica. Just say it, Mr. Mars. You knew when you did it that you were breaking the law, and you didn't care. The DA might go after Veronica too, you know. What if they bring up that time that she and Duncan broke into the Mannings' house? They talked about that at the Echolls trial. It's public knowledge."

The slightest mention of the trial that was sheer insanity always upsets him. His face, already pale and sweaty with stress, winces at Mac's words.

Wallace adds, "There must be people who can testify about what was on that security camera, Mr. Mars. Won't that be admissible in court? This isn't gonna go away." He turns to me. "An awful lot of people saw you half-naked on that video, Veronica. It's not exactly a secret that you're...resourceful. Everyone in Neptune remembers all the publicity from when Logan's dad was arrested...your dad's book about the Lilly Kane case...and then when you and Beaver, you know, on the roof— They'll know that you had a reason, that you were looking for something on that hard drive. It's not just Mr. Mars. _You're_ in real trouble too, Veronica."

Dad puts on a show of confidence. "Let's calm down and take a breath. If necessary, I can take a plea—plead guilty and serve some time. There's no need for anyone to know about Veronica—"

"You can't go to prison," I interrupt. "You put away too many people when you were sheriff. Half the Fitzpatricks and all those junkie bikers who make the PCHers look like babies. You won't survive."

"I'll survive just fine," Dad retorts. "If I take a plea—"

"No, you can't—"

"Veronica, I'm your father and—"

The argument escalates, both of us shouting and refusing to listen to each other.

"What about Gory?" Logan asks, shocking us into silence. "You said he's connected, right, Veronica? Mr. Mars, if you're in jail, you won't be around to protect Veronica if Gory comes after her."

The enormity of it all hits me. Suddenly the Sunset Cliffs apartment feels incredibly dangerous—we're being very foolish to stay here tonight; we should probably be on the move already. Who knows what he's planning? Gory was furious. Murderous. A sociopath.

Oh god. _Oh god._ I whisper, "Maybe he's right. Maybe we should—maybe we _should_ run, Dad."

It suddenly feels like a thousand eyes are watching us. I long to check the locks on the door again. This apartment, where we've felt safe for three and a half years...I can hardly stand to stay here for another minute. I'm itching to pack, to throw a couple pairs of jeans in a bag and jump in the car and just drive...drive until no one knows me...drive until I can start over again.

Until _we_ can start over again, my conscience reminds me. No, maybe it would be better if I...maybe they'd be better off without me. A few doors down in the apartment complex a door slams, and I twitch in response. There's a target on my back burning a hole into my skin.

Dad is talking again, and I shake off my paranoia to listen to him. We discuss all the options long into the night, and in the morning, the decision is made.

In a couple days, Wallace and Mac will go to the FBI and tell them everything they know. Neither of them did anything that was technically illegal—Mac didn't actually know for a fact that the hard drive she cracked was stolen. At the very least, when they tell their story, they'll get increased surveillance by the Neptune Sheriff's Department, and maybe they'll be offered federal witness protection.

We think they'll be okay. Gory probably won't connect the dots. Or care. We think he'll be looking for Logan most of all, and me.

Dad, Logan, and I will go into hiding. We can't take the chance that Dad—and maybe even I—would go to prison, where we'd be sitting ducks for Gory's confederates. We'll leave a copy of the unencrypted data from the hard drive at a local attorney's office, with instructions to deliver it to the FBI if any one of us turn up severely injured.

Or dead.

•••••

We hammer out the details of getting out of town undiscovered. Hesitantly, Dad mentions that splitting up might be safer for all of us. But I can't stomach the prospect of being apart from Dad right now, and, by the look of relief on his face at my protests, I see that he feels the same way.

After a little discussion, Dad overrules Logan's apprehension that Dad and I would be safer if Logan, as Gory's main target, was far away from us. Logan protests hard, and, fleetingly, I wonder if maybe there's something he's not telling us. But Dad insists that Logan needs our help to create a new identity, and he proves it to Logan, asking him if he knows how to make a false ID or how to use a prepaid credit card to pay utilities without alerting our pursuers. Logan finally agrees, and Dad says we can always split up later on, once Logan's learned the basics of life on the run.

But when Dad says 'split up', I flash back to Logan holding my hand yesterday as we drove back from the beach.

I can't give that up. I don't want to give that up. I don't _care_ if it's safer for us to split up.

He hasn't touched me—hasn't kissed or hugged me. We haven't changed. That wall that came between us when we argued about Madison Sinclair months ago is still there. We're not '_together_'.

But something happened between us yesterday when he reached for my hand and told me, "It never rains in Southern California."

•••••

Mac and Wallace do one last thing for us before we leave. After driving a circuitous route to foil any would-be pursuers, Mac, supplied with a blond wig, will drive my Saturn to Los Angeles, with Wallace following. She'll leave the car in a long-term parking lot near LAX and return in Wallace's car. Hopefully, the blond wig will be captured by traffic and security cams and any interested parties will think I—or we—have fled to Los Angeles. I watch from the apartment window as they drive away, realizing that I probably won't ever see them again.

Meanwhile, Dad makes online reservations for Greyhound tickets from Los Angeles to Aspen, where Logan still owns a condo, and pays by Western Union, making no attempt to cover his tracks on his computer. Three one-way tickets. We have no intention of using the tickets, but hopefully the reservations will obscure our real destination.

Dad also makes a call to a colleague in Las Vegas and asks him to set up an international corporation and a bank account in Costa Rica, wiring him the incorporation fees by Paypal. It's another false trail, an option that we don't intend to use.

On Dad's instructions, Logan calls some real estate brokers in Cabo San Lucas, asking to look at whatever properties are available. The brokers will run credit checks on Logan, which will hopefully draw pursuers to Baja California...where we won't be.

Logan heads over to the Neptune Grand, where he packs a few things, and then takes a cab to the San Diego airport. After walking a roundabout route through the terminal, he finds another cab and leaves the airport, switching cabs several times before ending up at a motel in a slightly seedy area on the outskirts of San Diego.

I do virtually the same, checking in at the same motel after a diversion to the San Diego Amtrak terminal. Each of us immediately heads out to our respective banks, which both have branches in San Diego, and clean out as much cash as possible. Logan has also been instructed to buy five American Express $100 gift cards—'as good as cash!'—at his bank. When he protested to Dad that the bank will then have a record of those cards, Dad had smiled and replied, "Exactly."

Logan will also visit a couple pawn shops, raising some more money by selling some Echolls heirlooms. We know these items will be traceable: in fact, we're counting on it. Logan will use some of the cash to put a deposit on a motorboat down at San Diego harbor, telling the boat broker that secrecy is essential and that he'll return with the balance in a few days. Then he'll stop in a Barnes and Noble, buying a travel guide to Baja California and a magazine devoted to 'offshore living' with his credit card. Dad carefully instructed him to ask a salesclerk at the bookstore for assistance, flirting with her a little. Every false trail we lay is hopefully going to delay our pursuers, both legal and criminal, giving us that much more time to get away. We don't have a lot of time, but we're trying to make the most of it.

Logan still hasn't returned when I get back to the motel from cleaning out our bank accounts and buying a few essential items that Dad had specified. Alone, I stew in the motel room, scared to death that something's already gone wrong—Gory's found Logan, or Vinnie's sworn out an arrest warrant on Dad. I count the money from our savings account three times. It's depressingly little, and I wish I'd spent less money on frivolous things like clothes and iPods over the last few years.

I wonder how much a used Emmy award is going for these days. Certainly not as much as an Oscar statuette with a sordid history. Frankly, I'm shocked that Logan had kept any of Aaron's things. I guess he still has the capacity to surprise me.

I can't help but remember helping Duncan flee with baby Lilly; that was amateur hour compared to this. For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he's doing and where he is. He's probably an expert at this by now. I pitied him at the time; now I think how courageous he was, to choose this nightmare. We don't have a choice. He did.

I consult my watch again. Surely they should be here by now. Peeking through the curtains, I check the parking lot. No cabs, but no insane Russian mobsters either.

I'd brought a few pictures with me from our apartment, surprising myself with my sentimentality. Pulling the cheap hardcover King James Bible from the motel's nightstand, I go to work with some glue and scissors I'd brought for this express purpose. I carefully paste the photos onto the inside front and back covers, and then cover them with the first and last pages of the book, gluing the edges with a precision that borders on obsessive. It would take an extremely diligent investigator to discover that photos were hidden in the Bible. After all, I'm the most suspicious person I know, and I'd thought long and hard before settling on this stratagem.

It feels surprisingly comforting to stow the Bible in the bottom of my backpack.

My dad arrives at the motel in a cab just as Logan returns from the boat broker. Dad packed what we need from Mars Investigations and traveled to San Diego using similarly discreet transportation. Each of us reports that there's been no sign of a tail and no difficulties in obtaining what we need to leave town. Dad quizzes us thoroughly as to exactly what transpired for each of us while we were apart, and seems satisfied that our precautions have been adequate.

It's depressing how little of our old lives we'll be taking. For each of us: one suitcase and a backpack that we'll always keep on our person, with one change of clothes, a prepaid phone, some fake ID that Dad rustled up quickly, and our money, divided between us in case we get separated.

Weevil's uncle has found us transportation: a ten-year-old Ford Taurus. Weevil delivers it to the motel in San Diego, swearing up and down that he's certain he wasn't followed. Dad crawls under the car, assuring himself that there is no tracking device or anything unusual installed on the undercarriage. The car is grey, high-mileage with a few dents. It's nothing special, and that's perfect.

The paperwork is somewhat less than perfect, however, and Weevil warns us that it would be very bad if we got pulled over. The car will suffice until Dad can build us a set of new identities and we can buy something else, with more legitimate paperwork.

I hug Weevil. He tells Logan to take care of me, and cautions us again not to go over the speed limit and to double-check all our running lights every day.

Weevil knows it's a very bad situation, and he doesn't give me a hard time about going off with Logan. I'm not sure what he heard about Gory, but Weevil not giving me shit about Logan scares me more than anything.

We'd planned on staying overnight in San Diego before leaving, but none of us feels like sleeping after the stress of the day, and we decide to just go. We each don a quick disguise from Dad's supplies: a black wig for me, ball cap and glasses for Dad, another wig and a cheesy mustache for Logan. I feel just as strange on the inside as we all look, and I'm terrified that all these ruses aren't going to do us any good.

Dad's adamant that we need to stay off the major highways. The secondary roads take forever, but we tell ourselves that it's safer. Maybe.

At 1:23am, we cross the border into Arizona and leave California behind.

* * *

_(to be continued, maybe...let me know if you like it in the reviews. I have more written, but I do need a little encouragement if you want me to continue, because I'm finding this fic to be very hard to write. Thanks.)_


	3. Chapter 3: Paranoia

**TITLE:** Paranoia (3/?)  
**AUTHOR:** Vanessagalore  
**CHARACTER:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 2,664  
**RATING:** PG-13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Very mild cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

_**~*~*~Thanks for the reviews: they were much appreciated.~*~*~**_

_The story so far: Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's B&E at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

* * *

We talk as we drive. Logan is new to the concept of being on the run. Dad's an expert, having tracked down close to a hundred bail jumpers in the last few years. He relates cases as the miles add up. For each one, I make notes of the mistakes the fugitives made, and we talk about how to prevent them.

Cash is a no-brainer; we won't be using credit cards at all, and no bank account until Dad can grow us an identity. Prepaid cell phones for each of us, changed every week in the beginning, we decide. And we never call or email anyone from our old lives. Absolutely no texting or Facebook: in fact, no Internet at all, except at public libraries where Google caches won't betray us.

No subscriptions, no cable TV, no Netflix. We'll eat a basic diet: no restaurants, and no giving in to cravings for sushi, pistachio ice cream, or a special Cabernet Sauvignon. We'll find new hobbies, and leave photography, surfing, and softball behind forever.

And absolutely no investigating, and no favors for friends.

The trunk of the car is filled with machines from the office: digital camera, laptop, laminator, combo printer/scanner/color copier, drivers' license blanks, special printer stock for birth certificates and diplomas, even an embosser that makes raised seals—all the tools that will help Dad forge the identification that will keep us alive. Even Vinnie will be able to figure out the moment he walks into Mars Investigations that we're on the run, but we're betting that he's not smart enough to find us. Vinnie's not without resources, especially now that he's sheriff, but Dad's confident that we can elude him.

With cash as our only option, we're going to have to stay in an apartment rented by the week when we get to where we're going, most likely paid in advance, which will be more expensive than a regular lease. We talk about temporary jobs that won't require a social security number or references: landscapers, cleaning companies, babysitting, maybe restaurants under the table. Dad doesn't say it, but we're all too aware that it's getting harder and harder to find cash jobs that won't leave a trail.

The total of Dad's and my savings is $46,582. Logan's contributed another $76,993 and several pieces of jewelry that had belonged to his mother. I try to tell myself it'll be enough cash to keep us going for a while, but Dad warns us that it's not very much at all. One serious illness and we'll be wiped out. "Stay healthy," he adds, not completely joking. "No skateboarding, okay?"

None of us voice our worry that a sudden, emergency getaway might be pretty expensive too. A lot's riding on those fake trails that we laid back in California.

As we drive, I sew our real IDs into the linings of our backpacks, hopeful that someday we'll get to use them again. We plan on storing our real identities, along with some cash and an alternate emergency identity, with second-rate attorneys in three different cities along the way. If it ever gets dangerous enough that we have to split up, or if one or two of us gets hurt or apprehended, Dad hopes that this scheme will give each of us a start on a new life. We can't use banks, with all their Patriot Act requirements, so safe-deposit boxes are out.

Logan asks how we know we can trust these lawyers who usually cater to hookers and DUI scofflaws, and we don't have the heart to tell him that we probably can't. "Hey, Cliff always stays bought, doesn't he?" Dad jokes. "He can't be the only honest cheap attorney in the country."

Dad suggests hiding about a quarter of our cash in the car itself, as another backup plan we hope we'll never have to use. After some discussion, we agree this is a good idea. Logan uses his penknife to rip open a seam in the backseat, and I sew a pack of hundred dollar bills into the crevice.

As the miles go by, it all feels more and more unreal with all the discussions of hypothetical situations and elaborate responses. It seems like much more than a couple weeks ago that I was doing a ridiculous cheer for Piz before heading out for a delightful Joltin' Java and then my afternoon class.

Town and cities flash by, blurring into one long and depressing stream of Americana: Home Depot, Walmart, 7-11, MacDonalds, Starbucks, Walgreens, Mobil, Shell, Dunkin Donuts, and Denny's. It's a blur of fluorescence and tawdry two-for-one deals, and parking lots jammed with cars and people who don't have to hide from mobsters or low-rent-P.I.s-turned-sheriffs with an axe to grind.

Mid-morning, we stop in a suburb outside Phoenix and open a Mailboxes Etc. post office box, using Dad's legitimate ID and a prepaid credit card, and buy the first of many prepaid phones that we'll be using. Dad tells the Mailboxes Etc. employee that he's going to be traveling extensively in the next year and needs to be able to forward his mail to many different addresses, and the employee shrugs, allowing Dad to prepay for an entire year without a hint of suspicion.

I explain to Logan the concept of disinformation—how we'll be using a network of these maildrops and phones, with automatic forwarding, both for leaving false trails and as a genuine way of receiving mail and contacting people in Neptune if we really need to. Logan admits that his head is spinning a little, but he understands the basic concept: the more information that clouds our tracks, the better. We want to have Gory and Vinnie looking for us all over the world for as long as possible, in order for our real trail to go cold.

For a few moments, as I go over the concept of maildrops with him, I feel like myself again. I slip into my old persona, my old confidence and that intellect that I always took such pride in shining through the way it always used to.

But then I remember, and I lose my enthusiasm. It's quite different to be the one pursued, rather than the pursuer.

I never even considered what it would be like to have my actions bite me on the ass. It had been so easy to fool the FBI when Duncan left. Or so I'd thought. Maybe they'd come closer to catching me than I'd ever realized.

Dad had pushed for Chapel Hill, North Carolina when we discussed where we should actually go. He'd traveled there chasing a bail jumper and felt like there were plenty of opportunities for cash work until we created a new life for ourselves. Logan and I would blend in with the college students living there, and there would be pizzerias and coffee shops catering to students that might need employees, and might not be scrupulous about checking out-of-town IDs or references.

It was close to Raleigh too: Dad needed access to public records in a large city to start the process of making new identities. And neither we nor Logan had any relatives or friends anywhere near there...no one would look for us there, we hoped.

So Chapel Hill it is. It feels very far away, via back roads. Way too much time spent out in the open, with traffic cams, state trooper speed traps, and gas station security cameras seemingly everywhere I look. There are too many ways we could screw up and let Vinnie or Gory know exactly where we are. I scrutinize the cars that pass us, worried that this driver here seems to be staring at us; that driver over there appears to be just a little too Russian-looking for comfort.

The first night and full day on the run, we drive a little over a thousand miles, reaching Lubbock, Texas via secondary roads around eight o'clock. When we stop, we pick a run-down motel on the outskirts of town. All three of us are exhausted; the little naps we've taken along the way have done nothing to relieve our fatigue. I'm longing to hide in a motel room for the next eight hours, after imagining Gory's face in the rearview for the last twenty-six.

••••••

After four fast-food meals in a row, Logan volunteers to drive to an all-night grocery store we passed a few blocks back and returns with the fixings for sandwiches and a store-made salad. We choke down tasteless ham and cheese sandwiches, and Dad tells us he's going to go for a little walk. "I'm wired from caffeine. I need to try to wind down so I can get some sleep," he explains. I realize he hasn't slept for three days, at least.

And then Logan and I are alone, for the first time since we left Neptune.

"A little TV?" he suggests. "Who knows if we'll have one where we're going."

Logan turns on the TV and perches on the edge of the bed to watch a baseball game. I pick one of the chairs by the window, about as far away as I can get and still stay in the room. Logan raises an eyebrow. "I don't bite, you know."

"I know."

"I was really worried about you after the election."

"I know."

The television announcer drones on. '_That is low inside, ball two—two and oh...New baseball thrown into play. Darren O'Day for the Rangers. Three balls, no strikes. Saunders the hitter. Rangers three, Mariners two, in the bottom of the sixth. O'Day getting ready. Now the pitch. Ball four...and Saunders takes the base.'  
_  
"Did you get a chance to talk to Parker before we left?" I ask suddenly, knowing that it's virtually certain that he didn't have time to call her. What a shitty friend I am...I didn't even think about her until now—didn't even consider that he might still have feelings for her, and she for him. Ashamed, I realize that I forgot that someone other than me might care about Logan's welfare and might be upset that he's skipping town.

And then I remember. _'He's all yours, Veronica.'_ "Oh. You broke up with her, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"About..."

"About the Piz thing. She broke it off." Logan slides backward on the bed and starts to lean against the headboard before stopping short. With a pronounced intake of breath, he winces and sits up.

"What is it?" I rush to him.

It hasn't really hit me until right this moment: Logan and Dad are all I have left in the world. I can't bear the thought that something's wrong.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing, you're hurting. Did you get hurt when you—"

Why the hell do I have such trouble saying it? _When you defended my honor. When you took it upon yourself to punish him for me._

"I think he punched me in the kidneys." He avoids looking at me. "There's been a little blood when I piss."

"Let me look at it. ...Logan, goddammit, let me look at it!"

A heavy sigh, and he unbuttons his shirt. I help him ease it over his shoulder—noting that the whole shoulder must be aching as well, based on the way he's moving it—and on his back, I see a large bruise. I touch it gingerly.

"Ow."

"Do you think you need a doctor?"

"No, I've been through a lot worse. I'll pee blood for a couple days, and then I'll be fine. Trust me, I know."

I refuse to think about how he knows that. "What about an ice pack? Maybe some Tylenol?"

"I think heat, not ice. And Tylenol would be good," he admits grudgingly.

I pull the curtain back and look at the street. "There's a drugstore down the block. They look like they're still open." I motion toward the very unimpressive coffeemaker next to the sink. "If I get you a hot water bottle, I can heat water in that."

"You don't have to bother—"

"It's been hurting you all day, hasn't it?"

He nods. "Didn't want to say anything. It's really going to be fine, Veronica. Please don't worry."

I grab my backpack and go. Frankly, it's a relief to do something, _anything_, to help.

When I return, Dad's come back also, and Logan's under the covers. How did I not see the pain on his face all day? I bustle around, heating the water, getting Logan a glass of water to take the Tylenol. As soon as I bring the filled hot water bottle to him, wrapped in a towel, he lays it on the mattress and rolls onto it, with visible relief as his body makes contact with the warmth. "Yeah, this feels good. Thanks."

"Don't...please don't keep things from me. I want to know if something's wrong."

"I'm okay." His eyes flick to mine before looking away. "Just need to get some rest."

There's a moment of awkwardness as we all realize that we haven't figured out who's sleeping where.

Dad breaks the silence. "I can sleep on the floor if you're—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Logan interrupts. "The two of us'll take this bed. Veronica can have the other one."

I lie awake listening to the two of them sleeping, five feet away from me. Dad's soft snores blend with the slight whistle of Logan's breathing, from the deviated septum that he really should get fixed. Dark angular shadows of unfamiliar furniture loom, occasionally highlighted by the sweep of headlights penetrating flimsy curtains as a car turns into the motel parking lot. An undefinable odor permeates the room, the amalgamation of hundreds, maybe thousands of guests, some of them running away from something, some of them running to something...but all of them with secrets to hide.

A car idles outside our door, and then it shuts off. The engine _tick, ticks_ as it cools, and then there is a _ka-chunk_ as a car door slams. Far off voices discuss something very important—something that absolutely needs to be resolved at two a.m. Footsteps, a quiet jangle of keys, the gentle scrape of a shoe on pavement...and the sounds doppler away down the breezeway to another motel room. A car radio blares from the street, followed by abrupt silence when it is switched off.

I miss Backup snuffling next to me as he slumbers, his occasional whining and pawing as he chases rabbits in his dreams...his warm, solid, constant presence. I'd cringed at the thought of Backup, injured or even shot, as collateral damage when Gory finally caught up to us, and the decision was easy. Wallace took him in for now and promised to find him a good home. It's better that we don't have to worry about him, to stop every few hours to walk him as we drive away from our lives. And I remember tracing Tom Cruz by his ridiculous Catahoula Leopard dog—we can't put a disguise on Backup.

Part of me foolishly hopes that someday I'll be able to be reunited with my dog again. That I'll have a normal life again.

_How could you have been so stupid, Veronica?_

I doze at last.

And I wake up with _his_ hands around my throat, a heavy weight pressing on my body, and a harsh whisper filling my ears, "Just lay back and enjoy it." I whimper and cry out, and Logan shakes me awake.

He whispers, "You're dreaming. You're okay."

"I thought— I thought it was..."

"I know."

"I'm sorry for everything."

"Me too."

Like an alcoholic craving a drink, I wish he would curl up with me and hold me like he used to. But he doesn't. He just sits on the bed, holding my hand. Apparently that's all we can muster up these days. Hand-holding. Perhaps we've regressed to eighth grade.

"I don't know how to do this."

He squeezes my hand a little tighter. "Yeah. Me either."


	4. Chapter 4: Prevarication

**TITLE:** Prevarication (4/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTER:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,824  
**RATING:** R for this chapter.  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

RECAP OF THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS:

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's B&E at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil. Logan admits Gory punched him in the kidneys in the fight. Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in, and Veronica seems to see danger everywhere around her. Logan tentatively comforts her when she has a nightmare._

* * *

I open my eyes to filtered sun sifting through the motel's cheap drapes. Dad shuts the door and puts a couple plastic shopping bags on the dresser. "Hey, you're awake," he notes as he turns to me, and I jump in alarm when I see his face. Dad's shaved off all his remaining hair and is wearing tinted aviator glasses. And he hasn't shaved his beard for a couple days. I've rarely seen him with so much as a five-o'clock shadow. He's creepy-looking, with that bald head and those odd glasses.

"Ah...good morning," I manage. "You look...ah geez, Dad, you look awful."

"Yeah. Kind of the point, Veronica. People look at the bald head, and they don't look at the face." Dad pulls a box from one of the bags and tosses it onto the bed next to me.

I struggle up onto my elbows and take a look. Brown hair dye. "'Butterscotch Boom', also known as mousy brown."

"Might save your life, sweetheart."

"Yeah, I know. And it's a lot easier than wearing a wig." I throw the covers off and head for the shower.

When I emerge, Logan's sitting on the side of the bed. He smiles at me and goes into the bathroom, his own new hair color in hand.

Dad motions to the chair that he's set up in front of the mirror. He picks up a comb and scissors. "I'm thinking...pretty short. Just below the ears. Your hair's been long for a couple years now. There aren't too many photos of you with short hair. It's our best bet."

I try not to react. Vanity is a luxury we can't afford. I know that...but it's still hard.

Draping a towel around my shoulders, Dad pulls the comb through my hair and gets to work, lopping off a large chunk of brown hair right off the bat. "D'you remember when you were little, and I was the only one you'd let cut your hair?"

"Yeah. I hated that lady at the beauty salon."

He chuckles. "You were already smarter than her at age three, and it pissed her off."

And of course, I remember that, even as a toddler, I couldn't keep my cleverness to myself. The stylist kept going on and on that she couldn't believe I was three because I was so small for my age. She asked Dad what he was feeding me, insinuating that Mom and Dad weren't taking proper care of me. "You know, nutrition's very important for young children. Are you sure she's eating a balanced diet?"

I piped up, "I have a good meTAH-, meTAH-, meTABatoLISm. Maybe _you_ need one of those!" The plump hairdresser flushed. Turning the chair around with a jerk, she grabbed my head roughly and began to cut my hair, much shorter than Dad had specified. I pulled away from her and began to cry. Dad swooped in and hoisted me in his arms, and we walked out of the salon. At home, he carefully evened out my hair and soothed my tears with a dish of Rocky Road. From then on, until I was eleven, he was in charge of my haircuts.

Dad got pretty good at cutting hair in those years. I watch in the mirror as he carefully combs out a section at a time and snips off the ends.

"Bangs, I think. I know you've been growing them out lately," he says apologetically.

"Yeah, that was a mistake." I close my eyes and the scissors brush lightly against my brow as he works. "Dad...I'm— I'm sorry for all this." The scissors hesitate and then begin cutting again. "Daddy, I screwed up. I'm so sorry. I know this is all my fault. I don't know why I— Oh god."

The scissors clunk on the dresser, and I open my eyes. Dropping to his knees beside the chair, Dad hugs me tightly. "It's going to be okay, Veronica. We're going to get through this. It's not your fault."

I hold on to him and sob, "It _is_ my fault. How can you say that? You gave up everything—"

"Shh. Shh. Hush, Veronica, it's okay." He rocks me a little, and I remember how he used to hold me in his arms every night, reading me a bedtime story, or pretending to let me read the bedtime story to him. _'And goodnight to the old lady, whispering hushhhh.'_ We'd always draw it out into a ridiculous, long word, a special comfort code we'd use whenever one of us was upset: _hushhhh, Daddy. Hushhhh, Veronica._

"I'm sorry. I promise I'm going to make it up to you."

"There's nothing to make up to me." He knuckles the tears from beneath my eyes.

I hate his new look, even without the ludicrous glasses. I want my old dad back, but that's never going to happen.

Logan emerges from the bathroom with black hair. To me, it looks patently fake with his coloring. I remember dressing as 'The White Stripes' for Halloween; this isn't much better. When Logan starts combing his hair in the mirror, Dad walks over and suggests a different part and a new way of combing it. "I think you should let your hair grow long, Logan. You've never had long hair, right?"

Logan nods, scowling at himself in the mirror. "Yeah. Maybe that would be good. It just looks...I don't know, something doesn't look right."

Dad scrutinizes him and nods. "Your eyebrows. They're too light."

"How about a brow pencil? I'm going to need to do that too," I suggest. I dig out my makeup bag, and I go to him and show him how I do it. Logan takes the pencil and begins to darken his brows, and he does look better. But it feels preposterous to see him applying makeup, no matter how unavoidable it is.

I feel sick thinking about doing this for the rest of our lives. How long until he hates me for making this necessary? I swallow hard and try to smile a little at our reflections.

"Thanks," he mutters, motioning with the brow pencil.

"How's your...your bruise?"

"Yeah, it's better today. Thanks. The hot water bottle helped a lot."

"I'm glad. We can heat it up again before we leave. I— I wish you wouldn't keep things from me. Please."

"Yeah. You're right." He keeps his focus on the mirror and the unfamiliar task of darkening his brows. One more clumsy swipe with the pencil, and, with a scowl at his reflection, he asks, "Better?"

"Yeah, but...here, gimme the pencil." I take it from him and feather a few strokes on his brow, blending them with my thumb. "Like this. It'll get easier. Makeup's hard in the beginning." Dad's doing something with some equipment out by the beds and not paying us much attention. So before I can chicken out, I say it again, the whispered words coming out in a rush. I feel like I can never say it enough. "I'm sorry I caused this. I'm so sorry."

"You didn't tell me to beat up Gory. In fact, you tried to tell me not to." He glances over at my dad.

What's that expression on his face? Guilt. He looks guilty. Something's going on with him, I _know_. "No, Logan...I did this. It's my fault...I've been...I've been like a loose cannon this whole year." _Tell me...what aren't you telling me?_

"You know, some people might think that you had a pretty good reason to be a loose cannon. You find out that Beaver's a monster who...assaulted you, almost killed you...and then you're in the middle of a rape investigation at Hearst and...and...and your boyfriend's a loser who—"

"No, stop. You're _not_ a loser. You told me you were worried about me. You tried to get me to stop investigating—"

"Yeah. We're pretty messed up, all right." And then he surprises me: he gently tucks a strand of my mousy brown hair behind my ear, the way he always used to. "We're going to get through this, Veronica."

Dad clears his throat. "Everything okay over there? I want to take some new photos and make some new IDs for us, and then hit the road. We still gotta clean up the room, too. Time's a-wasting."

That feeling of panic, never-enough-time, that conviction that someone's always chasing us—that's our new reality.

••••••

Just before we leave town, we mail the first one of Logan's Amex $100 gift cards to Arturo Escalante, Avenida Revolución, Cabo San Lucas, with a letter from 'Global Prize Syndicate' announcing, 'You have won our monthly contest! Use this gift card to treat yourself to a fine restaurant or a new cell phone, or anything you'd like.' We'd pulled Arturo's name and address from a Cabo San Lucas newspaper site. Smiling, I imagine Vinnie running down to Baja, trying to track Logan down.

As he drives down the road, leaving Lubbock in the rearview, Dad announces, "We need to go over a couple things about our fake IDs. Logan, you need to understand that's it's a crime to show one of these to a cop. A C felony, just to possess it, in a lot of states. Definitely a misdemeanor."

Logan replies, "Why even have a fake ID then? Let's just go without. We're not going to be doing any underage drinking, that's for sure."

I squirm a little, thinking of all the IDs I made for my friends and Dad busting me for it. Maybe if he'd come down a little harder on me...maybe if he'd insisted a little more on knowing what I was up to...god, I'd thought I knew everything.

Dad explains to Logan, "Look it, there are a lot of times you need ID: for instance, when we rent a motel room, even if we pay cash or use a prepaid credit card. It's too suspicious _not_ to have it in a lot of situations."

"What happens if we get stopped by a cop?"

"If we get pulled over, we're screwed," I butt in. "Period. We gotta be careful when we're driving."

"She's right. A policeman has the right to ask for the ID of anyone driving a car, and probably any of the passengers, too."

"Yeah, but Dad, it's really not legal to ID the passengers—"

"Veronica, we're not here to debate constitutional law. It's pretty damn likely that we're all going to end up in jail if we get pulled over. There are a million reasons that a cop can cite for probable cause when they've pulled over a vehicle. Trust me on this. I've performed hundreds of traffic stops, and I've never had a case thrown out."

Logan mutters, "And by the time we take it to the Supreme Court to argue about probable cause, we'll be dead from Gory's crew in prison anyways."

Dad ignores him. "So, we keep the speed down, we check the running lights and all the necessary safety equipment on the car. We're careful about passing. We don't drive too slowly either, but we stay in the right lane as much as possible."

"What about when we're not driving?" Logan asks. Again, I get that feeling. There's something very bad that he's not telling us. "What if you're just walking, and a cop asks for your ID? For some bullshit reason."

"You politely give him your fake name, and tell him you left your ID at home. Maybe even apologize, say you're sorry that you don't have it on you. If he asks if he can search you or look in your bag, you ask if you're under arrest, and if you're not, you say, 'Officer, I'd like to leave. I'm really sorry, but I don't have any ID on me. I've given you my name, and you don't have a reason to search me.'"

"Jesus. You mean, just walk away...refuse to be searched?"

"Yep. It's your right. He's probably going to follow you though. You better pray he's not having a bad day, because you just pissed him off. And his bullshit detector is going to be on high-alert. But, Logan, he's gotta have a reason to detain you, unless you consent to it. It's called a Terry Stop. He has to have probable cause even to ask you for ID. You'll be fine, just don't— ...Why are you asking?"

"Just...I just don't want to screw up." A sidelong glance out the window—he's way too interested in the scenery: dried-up scrub grass, a few trees, and cookie-cutter suburban homes.

Goddamn it. He's lying. What isn't he telling us?

Dad catches it too. "Why are you asking? Logan, what aren't you telling us?"

Logan says, "Um, technically, um, I'm on probation. It was, uh, after Mercer almost— I mean, you know, when they got arrested for the rapes at Hearst, and you know, they tried to hurt Veronica?... I took a baseball bat to one of the sheriff's department cruisers, so I'd get thrown into lockup with Mercer and Moe. And then..." He sees Dad's face, stone-cold furious, and stops.

"And then what? You _beat them up_? In the Neptune jail?"

I don't think I've seen Dad this angry since Jake Kane lied to him while Dad was investigating Lilly's murder. "Dad!"

Defensive as hell, Logan retorts, "Yeah, I beat them up! I paid a fine and I had a suspended sentence. Criminal mischief, a misdemeanor, big fucking deal. It was worth it to smash their faces in."

Stubborn, reckless Logan...I remember him mouthing off to his father just like this when the four of us had been caught raiding the Echolls liquor cabinet freshman year. Consequences be damned, as usual. I feel nauseous thinking about the risk he'd taken to exact vengeance for me. A police car? Voluntarily going to jail, after the hell he'd been through senior year when under suspicion for Felix's murder?

And I hadn't even know that he'd done it.

That makes three times he's beat up someone on my behalf: Mercer and Moe, Piz, and Gory. Four times if you count the ATF agent. Crap. Each time he hadn't hesitated; he weighed the consequences for about a second and decided that the feel of the skin of his knuckles breaking on someone's face was worth whatever would happen to him.

There's an exit ramp just ahead, and Dad accelerates, obviously trying to get off the thruway as quickly as possible. The car lurches and the tires squeal as he takes the right turn at the bottom of the ramp a little too fast.

I clutch the armrest as the car careens around the corner. "Dad, you're...you're gonna get a ticket. What happened to being careful about our driving? Daddy, please, you're scaring me!"

Ignoring me, he turns right again into a residential neighborhood and pulls the car over to the side of the road, slamming the gear shift into 'park' as the car stops with a jerk.

Dad's voice is brusque, a tone I've never heard before, but it's a timbre I bet many offenders grew to know well when he was sheriff. That's exactly what Logan's become now, an offender. "You purposely wrecked a squad car? And then you assaulted your fellow prisoners in lockup?"

"Yeah, I told you, I'm on probation. Informal probation, they called it. I don't even have to check in with a probation officer."

"So you're telling me that I'm abetting a fugitive? What are the _exact_ requirements of your probation? Are you allowed to leave the jurisdiction?"

"It's not a problem. I completed the anger management classes, and did fifty AA meetings in ninety days. Kept my grades up, too. Everybody was happy because I was getting my shit together. I asked the probation officer if I could go to South America to go surfing this summer and he said it would be fine. He's cool—he's so starstruck by me being the son of the fabulous Aaron Echolls that he—"

"It was okay for you to go to South America because you _asked_ him. What about a UA? Have they been doing random drug testing on you?

"No, I told you, I don't have to check in, the P.O. is cool—"

"Don't you get it? All that has to happen now is Vinnie contacts your P.O. and tells him to have you come in, and, when you don't show up, _BOOM!_ you're violated! You're now in violation of your probation and they can swear out a warrant for you. Suspended sentence, don't you understand what that means? They can reopen your case now and sentence you to the whole goddamned kit and caboodle—what was it, a year's suspended sentence?"

"Yeah, a year! I didn't realize—"

"You didn't _think_. Just like you didn't think when you started whaling on a fucking mobster!"

"Yeah, you're right. I didn't think. I just—" He looks at me. I recognize the regret on his face; it's the same as mine. "I'm sorry. I'll get the hell out of your lives now."

Logan jumps out of car with only his backpack and starts walking.

"Dad, stop him! You can't let him go off on his own! He'll be dead in a week."

"Veronica, this is very, very bad. He doesn't _ever_ think before he flies off the handle! He should have told us about this before we left Neptune. He didn't open his mouth about being on probation. There's probably already a warrant for him in the system. If Gory's smart, he had Logan's criminal record investigated and now some lowlife P.I. is just waiting for Logan to jaywalk—"

"You're signing his death warrant."

"Did you know about this? Did you know he was on probation? Veronica...tell me that you didn't know about this!"

"No, I didn't know! He never told me. I mean...I heard a rumor that Mercer and Moe got beat up in the holding cell. I guess I assumed that someone didn't like rapists. I didn't talk to Logan for weeks after they were arrested. We were broken up, remember?"

I'm overcome by guilt again. Why _didn't_ I know what happened? I thought I was supposed to be some kind of superstar teen detective. Even after we got back together, I didn't ever find out that he was on probation. Was he peeing in a cup when I had my back turned? I try to think back, considering whether there were times when he was being secretive about where he was going.

And I realize: he was _always_ being evasive, the whole year, whether we were together or not. He'd tell me about a last-minute weightlifting 'midterm exam', or forget to tell me about a trip to Aspen—_oh god, don't go there, Veronica—_or surreptitiously visit a secret poker game or a hedonistic frat party that would have repulsed me. Sometimes it felt like he was pushing my buttons, testing just how pathologically suspicious I'd be.

Dad muses, "Yeah, I heard that rumor about Mercer and Moe too. To be frank, I didn't care too much about their safety at that point. But it's funny how for once Lamb kept his mouth shut. You'd think the paparazzi would have gotten a hold of the news of Logan's arrest."

"I'm sure that Logan made it worth his while—a donation to the sheriff's department little league team, something like that—to keep it out of the tabloids." _Focus, Veronica. Logan's out there by himself._ "Dad, you can't do this. We can't leave him on his own. He doesn't have the first idea what to do on the run. You heard him—he barely gets the concept of disinformation with burn phones and maildrops. He needs us."

Dad is silent and refuses to look at me.

"Dad, please." I look out the window, trying to see where Logan went. Panicked, I realize he's out of sight already.

"Veronica. That whole long night back in Neptune, when we talked about whether we should run? He never thought that it might be a little bit relevant to tell us that he was on probation?"

"It doesn't matter. He won't make it without us."

"He's going to have to. He's jeopardizing your safety, Veronica. I can't accept that. I'm sorry."

Dad's completely right. It was grievously bad judgment for Logan not to tell us about his situation, and it means that it's going to be twice as hard for us to disappear.

I make up my mind. "I'm going with him. Logan screwed up, but this is _my_ fault. I caused this, I caused _all_ of this. I can't abandon him. I'm sorry. I love you, Dad."

I know that if I slow down to hug him goodbye, I won't be able to go. So I just leave. Grabbing my backpack, I jump out of the car and run after Logan. When I reach the main road, I look for him frantically, but he seems to have disappeared. Finally, I spot him a hundred feet down the road with his thumb stuck out for a ride, and I run to catch up with him.

He sees me and begins to walk away purposely. "Veronica, go away. Your dad's right. I'm a liability."

"_I'm_ the liability. _I'm_ the one that brought all this down on us!"

A car pulls up beside us, braking sharply to a stop. I almost scream, thinking for a second that Gory's caught up to us.

Dad says tersely through the open window, "Get in the car, and we'll talk about this. Right now! Both of you. If we make a scene here—we're all dead." He motions with his head. "People are already noticing. Goddamn it, get in the car and we'll work it out."

We comply, piling into the backseat as quickly as we can, and he drives in silence, making several turns before doubling back. I realize he's checking for a tail and maybe cops, and I'm so rattled by all this that it didn't even cross my mind that it was necessary. How in the hell are we going to do this if I can't hold it together?

I brush tears from my eyes and look at Logan. Staring out the window, he's rigid, with obvious tension in his shoulders. He hasn't said a word since he declared himself a liability.

Dad pulls into the parking lot of a large supermarket. Stopping the car, he turns around to face us. "I don't see any security cameras. Let's talk. Logan, I want you to tell me exactly what you did and what happened in court. And then I think we're going to have to take a chance and call Cliff and see just what's going on with your probation."

I reach out for Logan's hand to comfort him, but he pulls away and begins to tell us what happened.


	5. Chapter 5: Probation

**TITLE:** Probation (5/?)  
**AUTHOR:** Vanessagalore **  
CHARACTER:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 2,628  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

Thanks very much for all the lovely reviews. I'm really enjoying the writing as well as the interaction. I'm really hoping to post around once a week if I continue to be inspired (just so you know, I am several chapters ahead, so that I won't be *too* influenced by reviews—however, one of my reviewers may recognize their complaint being addressed in this section).

* * *

_RECAP OF THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS: Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's B&E at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil. Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team._

* * *

His voice is low. Somehow he's embarrassed, defiant, and proud all at once. It scares the crap out of me—the things that Logan's willing to do to avenge me, then and now.

He tells us how he freaked out when he heard what happened to me and, after a few drinks, came up with the idea of getting himself thrown into jail along with Mercer and Moe. There's a sense of incredible betrayal that a boy with whom Logan had been friends had tried to hurt me so badly. You can hear the self-loathing in his voice when he observes that he was quite familiar with Lamb's arrest procedures.

Dad's incredulous that Logan would do something so risky after all the trouble senior year, and Logan just shrugs. Somehow that calculation of risk and return is incredibly skewed when I'm part of the equation.

It's almost sensual when he talks about the way that it felt to smash the bat against the cruiser's windshield and how his fists swelled and ached from breaking Mercer and Moe's noses. He notes with pride that Moe lost consciousness for a little while and Mercer developed a new scar on that pretty face under his right eye. Ten stitches, Logan boasts.

Dad queries him about assault charges, and Logan shakes his head 'no'. Again, Dad says that Logan's lucky to have escaped with criminal mischief charges.

You can see it in every cell of his body that Logan doesn't feel lucky. He tells Dad that the original charges were felony battery and destruction of property, with an enhancement for having attacked a police vehicle. With self-contempt, he announces that his expensive lawyers had charged him extravagantly for the privilege of negotiating the charges down to criminal mischief.

Again, he deflects with that habitual swipe of hand through hair—now with a new jolt of surprise that his hair is parted wrong, and then remembering just why that is—and his downcast eyes try to avoid my dad's worried gaze.

Logan doesn't dare look at me.

His shoulders hunch, and I wonder again, as I often do, just how it was when his dad struck him with the belt. Did he cower from the punishment? No, he would have held his back straight and defied his father to do his best. It would have gone on and on: Aaron endlessly demanding apologies and promises of good behavior accented with vicious strokes, with Logan resisting, holding his back as straight as he could, refusing to give in. Until Logan finally was broken and pleading for mercy—and it would have killed him inside, every time. I can't see that it could have been any other way. Logan won't talk about it, and I know better than to ask. But it's obvious that Aaron molded him into the supremely screwed-up man that Logan is today.

Logan's saying something about a drunken party in Aspen a couple days before his pretrial hearing and then he breaks off speaking. He falls silent, staring out the window at the trees flashing by as Dad puts miles between us and Neptune, and I realize that this was the night with Madison.

This is new information. He was dreading his court date that night; his expensive lawyers had warned him that state prison time was a possibility if the judge didn't accept the plea agreement for a misdemeanor. It wasn't just another night, just another bimbo at a lavish, debauched 09er party.

I think about just how alone he must have felt the eve of his hearing. Was he contemplating strip searches and public toilets and very large convicts, who would've loved to defile the rich son of a bitch? Was he worrying about Hep-C and HIV and daily beatdowns by gang members? Madison's sordid sexual history probably didn't merit a blip on his radar. Yet...again, I wonder, why _Madison_?

I shake it off, and focus on something much more important than Madison: why Logan didn't tell me what was going on. And I realize it must have been very expensive for his lawyers to keep the proceedings out of the papers. He would have been dreading the paparazzi getting wind of that arrest. I get just a glimpse of how bleak it had been for him at that time.

I remember being kind of a mess myself. Mercer had really done a number on me. I'd thought that I'd learned to look beneath the surface after Beaver had fooled me so thoroughly. Mercer had just seemed like a sleaze, until he turned into a complete sociopath in front of my eyes. And Moe—I still feel humiliated that I let him drug me like that, practically served myself up on a platter for them. If Parker hadn't heard the rape whistle...

Parker. It had been so easy for me to dismiss her as a bimbo. And Mercer and Moe had completely snowed me. So I'd been wrong all the way around, about everyone.

I'd often thought about the irony of me hearing Parker being raped and cynically thinking she was your typical horny freshman getting some, when it was she who had heroically brought in the cavalry upon hearing the faint sound of a whistle being blown.

_'You actually think people would come a-running, huh?'_

Yeah, cynicism, as an art form. In retrospect, I guess that's when I first realized that I didn't know a goddamned thing.

I'd been a mess all right.

Logan is telling us about the pretrial hearing—surreal glimpses of an insane legal system. Bartering by blasé lawyers who truly didn't give a shit; a judge who was bored and indifferent about rehabilitation, as long as it didn't take long to dispose of the case. Logan had to make a statement expressing contrition and fervent promises to behave himself in the future. It had been all too obvious that the judge had heard it all before: the words were expected but not believed.

Pressed by Dad, Logan relates the specifics of his probation. One year of unsupervised probation, a relatively innocuous sentencing that meant no required meetings with a probation officer after an initial brief encounter and, surprisingly, not even drug testing, neither blood nor urine; restitution for the police cruiser, court costs, and a stiff fine; fifty AA meetings in ninety days; anger management classes; and a requirement to keep his grade point average at a B or above. I thought back and realized his flip comments about highlighter pens and attendance at early morning classes had been concealing a desperation to pull his grades up after the disaster of his first semester.

If Logan complied completely with the terms of the probation and managed not to get in any more trouble, at the end of the year, his plea of nolo contendere to the misdemeanor criminal mischief would be changed to not guilty and he could apply to have his record expunged.

"An expungement under 1203.4," Dad says, nodding. "That's good."

"Yeah, well, even with the expungement, I could never be an attorney or a doctor in the State of California, or so my lawyer said," Logan comments, that old smart-alecky attitude peeking out from under his despair. "Or run for public office. Here I'd been hoping to take over for Arnold, in the tradition of rich dilettantes running the Golden State."

"Don't joke about this." Dad's truly irritated.

There's a moment of silence, and then Logan speaks. The humiliation in his voice is impossible to bear. "I'm really sorry I let you down, but why are you so upset, anyways? I don't get it. We've broken a million laws the last few days since we left Neptune...what's one more broken law?"

Dad shakes his head. "No. We _haven't_ broken any laws, except maybe knowingly driving a car with forged paperwork, which is petty-ante stuff. Until the grand jury brings down an indictment against me, there's no law against us traveling across the country. That's one of the reasons it was so important to get as far away from Neptune as quickly as possible, before an indictment could happen. And there's no crime in concealing your personal identity. But it's not just that. My little tampering-with-evidence problem is page 29, below the fold. The son of Aaron Echolls jumping probation? That's the front cover of People magazine. Every paparazzo and all your dad's fans are going to be on the lookout for you now. And you can bet Vinnie's going to be giving interviews to all the tabloids to fan the flames."

"Jesus! I...I swear to you, Mr. Mars, I— I didn't think it'd be a big deal. It didn't seem like a big deal."

"You're right, it wasn't. Did you bring a copy of the probation order with you?"

"No. It's in a safe-deposit box in Neptune."

"Shit." It's shocking to hear my dad curse so overtly. And I've never seen him look so weary as he does right now.

"Logan," I ask hesitantly, "Why didn't you tell me?" I'm almost afraid to let the words float on the air between us. "You never said anything, even when we got back together. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

Shaded eyes flick toward me, concealing more than revealing. "I didn't want you to know."

He's much better at lying to me than Dad is.

•••••

Dad tells us he needs to think about what we should do. He pulls out of the parking lot and heads back to the freeway. The set of his face is grim, and his eyes are focused on the road ahead. There are no half-smiles of reassurance in the rearview mirror today.

Logan's sitting as far away from me as he can on the rear bench seat, his head tilted onto the window and his eyes vacant. The recitation of his sins took a lot out of him. He's making a point of not looking at me too.

There's a film running on a loop in my head: Logan smashing a police car with a baseball bat, fading into Logan pummeling Mercer and Moe. Over and over, that determined, slightly crazed face as he focuses on the task at hand. A judge swings the gavel down hard, Logan is hauled out of the courtroom in prison-orange and chains, and then the cycle begins again, with Logan hoisting the bat high to get his vengeance.

And then it morphs into the food court, Logan sending a table and chairs flying as he attacks Gory. I watch the images, frozen...I can't even manage a word in protest. It's that nightmare where you can't move. After that last punch, Logan looks at me. Directly at me. He wants my reaction. He wants me to know that he did it for me. This time, at least, he's sure that I'm aware just what he did for me. Again, I try to warn him, "He's connected," and again the table flies and I'm powerless as the images assault me over and over, and Gory keeps repeating, "Whoever you are, you're gonna die."

I force myself to think back to January, after this pretrial hearing that I never even knew about. We'd gotten back together...I'd gone to his suite and thrown myself into his arms. There wasn't any talking that night. When I think about it, we didn't talk at all when we resumed our relationship. We never discussed the issues that had driven us apart. Maybe we were hoping they'd just go away if we ignored them. Or maybe we were afraid if we looked at them again, we'd deadlock, the way we always did.

I remember thinking, _'this time, maybe this time, please.'_ Frantic caresses and kisses all over, and nonsense words of love, sure, but no promises, no negotiations, just the same old dysfunctional relationship we'd always had. The film in my head turns into flashes of the two of us, making love for hours—the director's cut, I think, absurdly, with all the soft-core deleted scenes of an erotic entanglement. A memory, jagged and stuttering, of falling onto luxurious sheets on a ridiculously soft mattress, rolling, Logan's weight on top of me, below me, insistent, demanding, incredulous. Hands splayed on familiar skin, too long lamented in its absence.

Once again, we'd fit together our disparate heights and predilections with an effortlessness we reserved only for the bedroom. The back of his hand, wondering at the soft skin of my cheek; his hooded eyes, with pupils blown to black in lust; the feel of his legs easing me open... Sometime later that night, sated and happy, we'd fallen asleep in exhaustion, and we'd never spoken even a word of how we planned to make it work this time around.

Logan's still staring out the window, inscrutable and barricaded in his thoughts. Dad's chosen a route that skirts the major cities and avoids the interstates, and now we're in a rural part of Texas. 'Welcome to Vera, Texas, Founded 1890, Population 45.' One hog farm after another, with the midday heat shimmering off the flat landscape and the metal prefabricated farm buildings. Every once in a while, we pass a truck barreling along in the opposite direction. The sun glares in a washed-out, cloudless sky, and parallel white lines on the tarmac stretch to infinity. Logan gazes straight ahead as if hypnotized by fascinating scenery.

I wonder if he's replaying the same films in his head that I am, jumbled images of sex and violence and retribution.

And then there's my own responsibility for our problems. Squirming, I think about how Logan had been proven right about his concerns when Mercer and Moe had almost...oh god, I don't even know what they would have done. I don't want to know. I refuse to think about it.

That little bald patch on my scalp had niggled at me for months whenever I styled my hair. My fingers would brush against the bristle of shorn hair, and I'd pull my hand away and ignore the nausea, as the brutal image of Parker's bald head superimposed itself on my reflection.

But when Logan and I got back together after I'd solved the Hearst rapes and managed almost to get raped myself, he'd never said, _'I told you so.'_ And god, he could have. He'd told me _exactly_ what would happen.

And what was that Logan had said to me? _'Maybe I enjoy my romantic notions.'_ What's more romantic than beating up your girlfriend's attempted rapist? Was he trying to tell me then?

But, instead, I insisted on picking at the scab, pressing him about hookers and if he'd been with someone else. _What were you trying to prove, Veronica?_

I'd been accusing him of being a lowlife when he'd risked going to prison for me._  
_  
And he never said a word. Maybe it was stupid what he did, but the sentiment behind it—it's scary to contemplate that kind of love.

Suddenly, his eyes flick toward me. I wonder if he can feel my thoughts. I whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't know you did that for me."

Logan flinches and looks away. Maybe he was expecting more recriminations?

"Why didn't you tell me?" It's killing me that I can't figure this out. I may be a student of human nature for my job, but for the life of me I can't figure him and me out.

He shrugs. "Maybe I was tired of disappointing you."

I see Dad's eyes in the rearview mirror, watching us. Dad announces, "Let's stop up ahead at that gas station. We're going to call Cliff and see what's up. Maybe we're being paranoid for nothing."

Or maybe we're not.


	6. Chapter 6: Predicament

**TITLE:** Predicament (6/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTER:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,499  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by . All remaining errors are my responsibility.

RECAP OF THE FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS: _Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's B&E at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil. Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing._

* * *

We're smack dab in the middle of nowhere, at a gas station in Vera, Texas. Neptune feels far away, and the whole thing feels completely unreal. A pickup truck pulls in next to a gas pump, running over an old-fashioned black rubber pneumatic hose that warns of a customer. There's a loud _ding-ding_, and an attendant runs out to gas up the truck and clean the windows. A very large dog lounging in the bed of the pickup glares at us as his owner chats amicably with the gas station attendant.

Dad goes over what he wants me to say one more time, and I take one of our prepaid cell phones and dial Cliff's number back in Neptune.

"Cliff McCormack. 'Because friends don't let friends plead guilty.' Ask about our three-for-the-price-of-two divorce special."

As Dad had instructed, I masquerade as Inga Olofson, the longtime secretary at the Neptune Sheriff's Department. "Cleef. Inga here. I'm calling on the behalf of Sheriff Van Lowe."

"Yes, Inga. How can I help you?"

It's a punch in my gut to hear that familiar, deep voice and know that I probably won't ever see him again. That's if we're lucky. Cliff was one of the few who stood by my dad when he lost the recall election, and the only one who stopped by to make sure Dad was okay when Mom skipped town a short time later. And when we first opened Mars Investigations, Cliff made sure that Dad had enough cases to put food on the table by giving our business cards to his divorce clients who were seeking proof of infidelity or hidden assets.

Slipping into Inga's skin has always been easy for me, from the very first time I did it to play a practical joke on Dad years ago, and now I play it up bigtime. "_Ja_, the sheriff, he's a leetle swamped, and needs to speak to you on a case from 2006 where you vere the attorney of record."

"What case is that?" Cliff sounds wary, suspicion firing on all cylinders.

"I beleef you represented a client named, let me see here, Miss Sugar Jones, and the incident was a petty larceny and false imprisonment that occurred at the South Coast OB-GYN Society Annual Convention? _Ach du lieber_, I see something in the file about bondage and lewd conduct charges as well, vat in the vorld makes people do tinks like that—" Dad's slicing a finger across his throat, not happy with my improvisation.

"Yes, of course I remember that particular case. One of the highlights of my illustrious career. Uh, Inga? How are you doing? I heard you were...extra _busy_ lately with the transition." It's clear to me, but hopefully not to any potential eavesdropper or government wiretapper, that Cliff is complete aware who's calling him.

"_Ja_, busy, very busy. Tell me about it. Could you be so kind as to giff the sheriff a call on his private line at your earliest convenience? When you can talk without interruption...he has a few important tinks to discuss with you. Do you have a pen?" I read off the number of a second prepaid phone.

"I'll call the esteemed sheriff this evening. Will that be all right?"

God, I miss him, with his sardonic outlook and his beautiful wry voice. "_Ausgezeichnet_, Cleef. That would be great." I smother a chuckle as I play it to the hilt.

"Ausge—" Cliff laughs. "Nice speaking with you, Inga."

"You as well." I hang up.

"_Ausgezeichnet_?" Dad repeats. "You don't think that was laying it on a little thick?"

Logan asks, "What does it mean, anyways?"

"'Perfect,'" I explain. "Which it _was._"

Dad shakes his head. "You gotta restrain yourself, Veronica. Keep it simple."

"I've heard Inga say it a million times," I reply defensively.

"I'm not kidding, Veronica. It was fun to screw around a little when we were pretexting to catch a bail jumper. Now it's—"

"I got it, I _got_ it! I'll keep it simple from now on. I just...god, Dad, I needed a little laugh. Everything just feels so hopeless right now. But Dad—even if someone _was_ listening...it'll be all right. I think I nailed the accent."

"Yeah, you did. I'm still sort of appalled at how well you can imitate her." Dad's fumbling with the keypad on the second prepaid cell.

"What's he doing?" Logan asks.

"He's setting it to automatically call-forward to _this_ phone," I reply, motioning to yet another phone.

"So when Cliff calls phone #2, it will forward to phone #3," Dad explains. "And meanwhile, we're going to destroy the phone we just used and phone #2, and then we'll dump 'em. If someone figures that it was us contacting Cliff, and I think it's likely that Cliff's phone might be under surveillance, they'll have to trace phone #2 first, then they'll find out it was forwarding to phone #3—"

"Which we'll destroy after Cliff calls us back," I finish. "Call-forwarding to a third phone is another layer of protection, another bit of confusion to slow Vinnie or Gory down."

"Or," Dad says thoughtfully, "we might just leave that phone without the airtime card in a train station somewhere along the way and hope that someone picks it up and starts using it."

"Right, disinformation. It's getting a little pricey," Logan observes. "All these prepaid phones."

"But we're not going to be calling home every day, and I'd rather we took every precaution. It's possible to triangulate the location of a prepaid phone, given the proper warrants and Homeland Security-type equipment, so we need to assume that any call we make back to Neptune will eventually be located. We knew it wasn't going to be cheap to disappear. I have a couple jobs for you guys."

He hands me the phone we've labeled number one. "Veronica, call phone #2, so we can make sure it forwards to #3." I check the numbers and start dialing. Dad hates the tiny keypads on cell phones, and if he could, he'd never use one. And these economical phones we've bought have particularly minuscule buttons. He watches me, a little amused at how easy it is for me to navigate on these devices.

"What's my job?" Logan asks.

"One second." Dad steps out of the car and retrieves a soft-sided bag of tools from the trunk, dropping it with a clunk in the back seat by Logan's feet. "Once we get moving again, I want you to smash phone #1 and #2 into tiny little pieces and drop them out the window every few miles."

"Ah, a task that plays to my violent tendencies."

"Exactly."

•••••

Traffic is favorable all day, and, with only a couple more stops for quick meals, we make it all the way to El Dorado, Arkansas by nine p.m. before deciding to stop for the night. Dad puts prepaid phone #3 on the bureau, and it feels like all three of us are itching for it to ring, or perhaps dreading it.

"We made good time today," Dad tries.

"Yeah. We ought to make it to Chapel Hill in two more days if we keep this up," I reply.

Logan's drumming his fingers on the table by the window, barely paying attention to our conversation. The curtains are drawn—an ugly green and black pattern on worn fabric—and the room feels claustrophobic and tawdry. Dust bunnies are congregating in the corners, the bedspreads are dirty and wrinkled, and there's a disturbing brownish-red stain on the ceiling. I try the TV, and, despite the flickering "Free HBO" sign out in front of the motel, the reception is lousy, and I turn it off with a sigh.

"I bet if you sprayed some luminol in here, it'd light up like Christmas," I observe, half-joking. I point up to the stain on the ceiling. "Anybody wanna guess how the stiff got whacked in the room above here? Gun shot? Knife?"

Logan makes a disgusted face. "Ugh."

"Hey, I'm just trying to pass the time. I say it was Colonel Mustard with the lead pipe. Miss Scarlet was such a whore."

"Way to focus on the positive, Veronica. It's probably just a rust stain from a water leak." Dad goes to his suitcase on the bureau. Rooting around, he pulls out a deck of playing cards and begins shuffling. Logan and I exchange a glance—_cards?_ "You know, we have to be careful at all times now. Check everything twice, watch each other's backs, think about every single thing we do. But number one priority, we have to get along. We're in tight quarters, we're stressed, and our lives are literally on the line."

He begins to do a riffle shuffle with the cards, with that expert proficiency that I'd always tried to emulate. We'd always had a lot of fun playing with card tricks. I remember him teaching me the fan spread—that trick of spreading the cards in a half-circle that had so freaked out the boys before I kicked their ass at poker. Dad passes me the deck, and I do a Pharoah shuffle with a waterfall, and then a quick Greek shift, cutting the deck at the break. I smirk at Logan, who rolls his eyes at my shenanigans.

Dad says, "I'm sorry I lost it today. I'm still very unhappy that Logan didn't tell me everything before we left, but we've got to keep going here. Which means, sometimes we have to relax a little. _I _need to relax a little. How about a game of 'Cutthroat' while we're waiting for Cliff to call?"

I chuckle softly. Dad and Mom and I used to play this variation of spades all the time when I was little. Dad's right. We need this. I didn't even consider that Dad might be freaking out too and needing a little escape from all the stress. We've been so dependent on him to take charge—for Dad, it hasn't let up for a moment, since the day I crawled through a doggy door. "C'mon, Logan, it'll be fun."

"Yeah, I don't know that game. We're not talking about playing for money, are we? Because I played poker against Veronica once, and I was lucky to still have my boxers at the end."

Dad makes a face. "Boxers? I don't think I want to hear that story. But yeah, she's a card shark all right."

"Just like you taught me. We'll teach you, Logan," I reassure him.

"Don't worry, I won't let her cheat," Dad says. "You should see her play 'Spit'. It's just pathetic to see a grown woman care so much about a child's card game."

Logan's never played spades, but he's played hearts, and he picks it up fast. We play several rounds, and it feels incredible to let the tension slide away for a few minutes. We haven't thought about anything other than running or the terrible things that happened in Neptune for days now. Dad tells Logan a few embarrassing stories from my childhood, and I pretend to be upset, but truthfully, it's nice to see them talking and getting along.

And then the phone rings. The cards fall to the table unheeded and our small talk ceases. The cell rings again, the trilling ominous and blaring in the silence of the room. Dad walks over and retrieves the phone, thumbing the send button as he walks back to the table. The phone has a low-quality speakerphone, and Dad triggers it and says, "Hello?"

Cliff says cautiously, "Is the sheriff there?"

"Yeah, this is the sheriff." Not exactly a lie: some people still called Dad sheriff even when Lamb was in charge. He had a few staunch supporters who refused to accept the results of the recall election.

"Am I correct in inferring that you have two companions with you, Sheriff?"

"That's exactly right."

Cliff clears his throat. "I believe we can speak freely. I'm on a brand new prepaid phone and I'm not anywhere near my house, my car, or my office."

"Good. It's as safe as it can be where we are as well. Just to be clear, can you confirm that you're not recording this conversation, and no one else is listening or recording?"

"Yes, that's correct. I am not recording this conversation, and no one else is listening or recording. No one other than myself or you is even aware of this conversation."

Dad's eyes briefly meet mine. Did he really think Cliff would...?

Dad asks, "What's happening with the charges against me?"

"They've filed charges, felony spoliation of evidence like we thought, and they've issued an arrest warrant for you. And in the Register this morning, Vinnie gave a statement that Veronica was a person of interest in the case and that he expected to be filing additional charges. He hinted that he's got a solid witness to bring before the grand jury to testify about the compromised evidence and that he'll be amending the complaint and trying for criminal conspiracy charges. The scuttlebutt around the courthouse is that there's some sort of salacious video floating around. I don't suppose you want to tell me what that is."

Fuck. 'Criminal conspiracy'—Walter Harvey must be testifying about what was on the DVR. And salacious video, oh god, oh _god_. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck Vinnie and the horse he rode in on. Dad's face has gone white, and Logan looks palpably frightened.

Cliff is saying, "Vinnie's throwing mud at the wall and hoping something will stick. And you guys not being there to answer the charges...well, it's going to look bad. You know that I don't know exactly what happened, but—"

"It's better you don't know. Cliff, there's another matter. When we left, I was not aware that Logan was on probation. He's explained to me that it was a misdemeanor, and that he's on informal probation and hasn't even been checking in with his P.O. But you and I know that he shouldn't have left the jurisdiction without permission. I'm very concerned about the consequences of this. What's the status on his probation?"

I sneak a glance at Logan. He looks nauseated, the good times of a few minutes ago completely forgotten.

"You're right to be concerned. I heard his probation's been revoked, and a warrant was issued for his arrest when his probation officer wasn't able to contact him."

"Can they do that?" Logan interjects.

"They can do pretty much anything they want. Perhaps your high-priced attorneys should have gone over that with you. Once you're on probation, the concept of innocent until proven guilty gets thrown out the window, and all it takes is a preponderance of evidence of misconduct for you to head back to the slammer. I hope you're okay with bunk beds and scratchy orange jumpsuits...and perhaps a new best friend named José, with colorful prison tats. However, I could hook you up with some soap-on-a-rope, no extra charge."

"Shit," Logan mutters.

Cliff continues, "There's some talk that the judge wants to rescind the deal they made with you for a misdemeanor, and he's going to allow the DA to refile the original felony battery charges from last December. The real problem is the new charges; no one's going to cut you any slack now."

"The _what_? What new charges?" Logan asks.

"A man named Gorya Sorokin filed battery charges against you. Apparently you started a fight with him with about two hundred witnesses in the food court at Hearst College? Two felony battery charges in six months is usually considered a bad thing, even for sons of beloved Hollywood actors."

Logan looks like he's about to explode. I put a hand on his arm to try to calm him down, and to my surprise, after avoiding all physical contact for most of the day, he takes my hand and holds on tightly.

Dad looks very grim. "Cliff, do you know anything about this guy Sorokin?"

"I know that his fancy lawyer walked into my office and threatened me with grave consequences if I didn't tell him where my client was. I explained that Logan Echolls hasn't been my client for quite some time."

I break in. "Cliff, he's connected. The Sorokins are Russian mafia. Gory threatened to kill Logan. We think he broke into Logan's suite at the Grand the night before we left."

"Yes, I surmised that Mr. Sorokin was somewhat...unsavory, shall we say. Logan, how did you get mixed up with the Russian— Never mind, I really don't want to even know. Please don't tell me."

Dad interrupts, "Cliff, you need to be careful. That phone call the night before we left—"

"Yes, I've already spoken to our esteemed Sheriff Van Lowe, who informed me that he had subpoenaed your phone records. He was quite persistent, asking what we'd talked about that night. I told him the truth and nothing but the truth: you asked me about the gossip at the court house. He asked me if I knew where you were and if you were on the run, and I told him truthfully that I had no idea."

"With those two felony charges, do you know if Logan is on the NCIC?"

"I would think so." My heart sinks as Cliff confirms that the arrest warrant for Logan has gone out on the law enforcement computer system used nationwide. Cliff continues, "You probably are as well. I hope you guys have enough money; the word on the street is that Vinnie's looking to freeze all of Logan's assets. I hope you're being exceedingly cautious in your movements. Note that I absolutely do not want to know where you are."

"Yes, we're being cautious."

"You do realize that the paparazzi are probably going to pick up the story as well?"

"Oh god," I whisper.

"You're damn lucky—Lindsay Lohan got drunk off her ass and drove her car off a curb a couple days ago, and that's all over the news. And then of course Paris Hilton's heading to jail next week for violating _her_ probation, and the tabloids are in a frenzy over it. Otherwise, Logan's little problem with the law would be the top story on Entertainment Tonight. You better hope these girls keep snorting coke and showing off their crotchless panties in limos." Cliff pauses. "Keith, are you sure you're doing the right thing? I'd be happy to put together a legal team to try to work out the best possible scenario—"

Dad sighs. "Cliff, we decided that any of our legal solutions had too much risk when you added in the factor of a Russian mobster on a vendetta."

I chime in, "If there's even such a thing as a fair trial in Neptune. Dad wouldn't stand a chance. And all the creeps who Dad's put away over the years...you know he'd never be safe in prison."

There's a long silence, and then Cliff says, "I guess the best I can hope for is that I won't be seeing you."

Dad says, "Dump that phone as soon as possible, okay? And be safe. Don't take any chances with this guy Sorokin. Go to the feds if necessary and ask for protection."

"Yeah, I know. Good luck."

Dad hangs up. I can feel Logan tensing. He's expecting Dad to explode again. But Dad seems to be in shock. We knew how much trouble we were in, but Cliff has made it that much more real. It's just about as bad as it can be. I can't imagine how hard it is for Dad, to try to make all these decisions for us. We're always looking to him to make decisions and be strong, and Logan and I keep making it ever more difficult.

I look at Dad, unshaven with a bald head, and Logan with blackened hair, and their disguises are not nearly good enough. My brain keeps superimposing prison bars over their faces. That vision I'd had of the judge hammering down his gavel haunts me again, with a new twist: both Logan and Dad in orange prison garb, with chains around their waists and their faces black and blue and swollen from beatings, their expressions nervous and despairing as the jury foreman reads the guilty verdict.

We're sixteen hundred miles away from Neptune, and it doesn't even matter. Every police computer in the U.S. has a picture of Dad and Logan now, and probably of me too, eventually, if Vinnie gets his way. If the paparazzi get wind of this story, every newstand will have a picture of Logan on the front cover of the National Enquirer, and maybe even my picture as well. I'm praying that Britney shaves her head again...anything to distract the goddamn paparazzi.

And that video of me doing a cheer? You tell me...what's viral times a billion?

It's all so much worse than it was. We've totally fucked up by running.

* * *

_Note: Lindsay's accident actually happened in May 2007, the time of the season 3 finale, and Paris's jail sentence was scheduled to begin on June 5. Britney shaved her head on Feb. 17, 2007.  
_


	7. Chapter 7: Paradox

**TITLE:** Paradox (7/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith **  
WORD COUNT:** 5,051  
**RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

_RECAP OF THE FIRST SIX CHAPTERS: Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's B&E at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil. Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

* * *

We don't look at each other. We don't say anything. All three of us are replaying the conversation with Cliff.

It feels like the room has tightened in on us...like a trap that's ready to spring. In the distance, we hear a police siren nearing, then deafening through the thin motel walls, and then...relief as the siren moves away and fades. All of us let out a collective breath we hadn't realized we were holding.

Finally Dad clears his throat. "I think I want to try to get a couple newspapers. It's going to take at least a week before the story could show up in something like People or Entertainment Weekly, but I'd like to see what's actually in the newspapers around here. I'm hoping maybe I can even find an LA Times."

I nod without speaking.

Dad shrugs on a light jacket despite the early summer weather, and, turning his back to us, he fumbles in his bag. When he turns around, the jacket's been zipped up, and I realize he must have shoved his revolver in his waistband. He catches his reflection in the mirror and frowns.

For a moment, I see his hands shaking, just barely perceptibly, as he withdraws a ball cap from his backpack and pulls it down low on his forehead...and then he changes his mind and pulls the hat off. He adjusts the ugly aviator glasses a little and smoothes the front of his jacket before turning to us again.

Dad says, "Put the chain on the door behind me, all right? Don't open the door unless I say...let's see..."

"Backup," I suggest.

"All right, 'Backup' it is. I might be a while. Couple hours maybe."

The door shuts with a scraping sound and I go to attach the chain. It's an economy model lock, and I'm betting a good kick above the door knob would strip the screws and pop the device right off the door. I double-check the handset lock and then I collapse onto the bed, my head in my hands and my eyes running over with tears.

I feel a weight beside me on the bed, an arm tentatively encircling me, and I sag against the solid form of Logan's body.

"It's going to be okay, Veronica, it's going to be okay. Your dad knows what he's doing."

"Didn't you see him? He's scared to death. He was shaking. And he took his gun. Oh god, Logan."

"Shh, it's going to be okay." He holds me a little tighter, more confident that I'm not going to pull away, I guess. "This is okay?" he asks, reading my mind. "It's okay to hold you?"

"Oh god, is this what we are now? You can't even hug me anymore? I've ruined everything."

"You didn't do it _all_ by yourself. I helped a little," he reminds me. "You didn't bash in a police car. I did that all on my own."

I laugh despite myself. "You have a funny way of trying to make me feel better."

"You laughed, didn't you?" With his free hand, he threads his fingers through mine. "It feels good to hug you again, and you know I'll always care about you, but now that it's...the three of us...I just don't want to mess things up by starting up, I guess you'd call it a love affair. We _can't_ mess up—we can't start having the fights we always had when we tried to go out. If we're going to try again...we can't be fighting when it's just the three of us in close quarters and we can't get away from each other if we're fighting."

"I know. We're doing good. We're getting along. It's good to be—I guess, we're just a little more than friends." He rocks me a little, and I do feel better.

I'm very glad he's here with us. I can't imagine how horrible it would have been to be worrying about him if he'd gone off on his own, and how frightening it would have been for him, to try to figure out how to do this by himself.

I keep my eyes closed, and I pretend we're back in my bedroom in Neptune...not that Logan ever got to spend any significant time there, with Dad breathing down his neck from the next room. My desk is over that way—it looks messy, but really it's organized down to every last paper. The louvered windows that I'd hated at first, but then I grew to love the beautifully filtered light that suffused the room at sunset. A few photos on the wall over there: Lilly and me in our soccer uniforms; the four of us at Homecoming; high school graduation with me, Wallace, Mac, and Logan; Mom and Dad cooking barbecue at our old house.

I try to remember every detail, no matter how small: a pile of folded clothes, fresh from the laundry; books for school; a schedule for Hearst College Spring 2007 and a bill from the bursar's office; and a couple photos for a case Dad and I are working on. And my bed—just soft enough, with sheets smelling like fabric softener and our favorite laundry detergent, a couple grungy stuffed animals and that pillow that cradles my head just the way I like it. "Oh, I miss home already," I murmur. I keep my eyes closed tight, to keep the images from disappearing.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Even the Grand...it wasn't home, but it was familiar, and it felt safe."

"Yeah." I hold onto his interlaced fingers tightly, and I ask the question that's been bugging me all day. "Logan, why didn't you tell me when you got yourself arrested?"

"I told you, I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to be disappointed in me again."

"You're lying." He tries to pull his hand away, but I'm ready for him, and his hand doesn't escape my grip. "So does that mean you _did _want me to know?"

"Veronica, I don't know if I want to talk about this."

"Please! Please help me understand."

All of a sudden there's an edge to his voice. "You spent the whole fall semester tracking me. You had a bug in my phone. Remember, Veronica? Maybe even other bugs I didn't know about! If I was five minutes late for anything, you wanted to know where the hell I was. But then...you stopped caring. You couldn't care less what I was doing."

"That's not true. I would have wanted to know—"

"Veronica. I watched you...in the food court."

His words are not what I expect, and before I realize it, he's pulled his hand away from mine, and dropped his arm from around my shoulders. There's only a couple inches between us, but it might as well be a mile. He starts to stand up to walk away from me, and I grab his shirt sleeve and force him to sit back down beside me. "What in the world are you talking about? What happened in the food court? When?"

Logan breathes heavily, trying to calm himself I suspect, and when he finally speaks, his voice is thick, muddy with emotion, maybe even a little anger. "It was a few days before I broke up with you. I was calling you, and I could see you across the court answering your phone. You checked the display, and then you hit 'ignore'. You didn't want anything to do with me."

"Oh god, Logan, I'm—"

"Look, I know it was bad between us. I just never thought that you'd ignore me like that. And then...when I was sitting in a jail cell after I beat up Mercer and Moe, I figured you'd show up and start screaming at me, telling me what an asshat I'd been, as usual. I guess I was hoping, maybe, just maybe, you'd calm down and realize that I did it for you—that I did it because I couldn't stand to think of you hurting and them unscathed in a prison cell."

His words start spilling out, as if he's afraid I won't let him finish. "Maybe you'd even be _glad_ I did it for you and realize...realize how much I fucking love you and care about you, even when we're not together! But then you never showed up, you never called, and I realized you didn't even care what I did anymore." Logan stands up, and this time I let him go. He starts pacing around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists, and I wonder if those anger management classes had any impact at all.

My god...on some level, Logan had been making a grand declaration of love with that baseball bat, and he'd expected me to...what? Come running back? Swear my undying love? God, how fucked up the two of us are if this is what passes for a romantic gesture. My head hurts trying to process it all.

I try to reason with him. "Logan, how could I care if I didn't know—"

"Veronica, you always knew everything I did. And all of a sudden you couldn't be bothered to find out what I was up to? Especially when it involved me being my usual jackass self?"

"I was a little preoccupied at the time, giving testimony about what Mercer and Moe did to me." There's an iciness to my voice, and I try to put on the brakes before I say something that can't ever be taken back. "Logan, I swear to you I didn't know about it. Maybe people were trying to protect me and keeping it from me, did you ever think of that?"

"Or maybe you just didn't give a shit any more."

"Jesus. Logan, is that what you think?"

His head drops to his hands, and he grinds his fists into his eyes, trying to erase something, some memory, some perception that he wished he didn't have. And then he lets his hands fall to his side, and he looks me right in the eye. His gaze burns me. "_Yes_, I wanted you to know. _Yes_, I wanted you to give a shit. _Yes, _I wanted you to check up on me, and be glad that I still cared about you enough to get myself thrown into jail for you. And then when you didn't—"

"You said, 'fuck her.'"

He closes his eyes again and nods. "Maybe...a little."

"And then..." I can barely see through the tears that suddenly overrun my eyes. "And then you slept with Madison. I'm right, aren't I? That's when you slept with Madison, at that party in Aspen right before your hearing. You slept with Madison to hurt me, because you thought I didn't give a shit any more."

"Jesus, Veronica! I don't think I was quite that _organized_ in my thinking! You're giving me a lot of credit for plotting revenge against you. Do you think you could accept the possibility that—just maybe—I slept with the first skank who threw herself at me that night, because I felt like shit about everything, and I didn't even think about the _particular_ skank that I screwed that night?"

"Oh, well, when you put it that way, it feels so much better."

"I mean, I know you don't like her, but...Jesus, Veronica, why the hell do you hate Madison so much?"

"You should _know_!" I cry.

"Goddamn it, Veronica, I _don't_ know."

"If you cared about me—"

"Oh, you do _not_ get to say that I don't care about you. You do _not_ get to say that. I beat up a fucking mobster for you! I'm not perfect, but you don't get to say that I don't care about you."

We stare at each other. No one can fight the way we do. We don't even need to hate each other; love seems to be perfectly enough for us to destroy each other.

And I don't want to destroy him. I don't. God, I don't want to fight about this any more. Dad's out there, doing god knows what with a gun in his belt, and Vinnie and a platoon of state troopers might be right around the corner, ready to lock on the handcuffs and haul us back to Neptune...and Gory might be aiming a sniper rifle at us right this second. My skin crawls, just imagining Gory targeting the two of us, sitting ducks in a motel with cheap locks and a desk clerk who'd probably sell us out for twenty bucks.

So...everything Logan did? Every stupid thing the two of us did to each other in the name of love? I just don't care any more, and I do know that I love this guy, whatever he did.

I take a breath, and then, as calmly as I can, without a hint of sarcasm, I say, "You're right. Beating up a mobster? That's love all right, and that's all that matters."

"What?" He was expecting a fastball, ready to knock it out of the park with a biting retort, but my curveball takes him by surprise, and it's a swing and a miss. Logan's practically gaping at me, and he sags against the bureau for support.

"It's what every girl dreams of: a cafeteria fight with a mobster. Her boyfriend defending her honor. It's practically a fairy tale." I reach out for his hand and pull him back to the bed with me. He flops down onto the mattress beside me, the springs squeaking in protest.

"Are you mad at me for beating up Mercer and Moe?" I can hear the confusion in Logan's voice.

"No. I wish you hadn't done it, but...will you promise me something?"

"It depends."

"Promise me that you won't ever beat anybody up for me again. You can't do that. It's not the way to tell me that you love me. You can't beat up anybody ever again, no matter what they do to me. Especially now, the way things are."

"You drive a hard bargain, Mars. All right, I promise."

"You're sure?"

"I promise, I swear to you."

"Okay. Logan...now that we got that out of the way...I _love_ that you beat up Mercer and Moe. And I wish I'd seen you bust up that police car. I miss all the good stuff."

He huffs quietly. "Yeah, it was epic. You should have seen the faces on those cops. I'd already assumed the position by the time they got to the cruiser, and I thought they were going to shit a brick."

"Aluminum or wood? Your bat."

"Old school, of course. Wood, you know what a purist I am."

He stands up and tugs at my wrist, pulling me up to the head of the bed with him. He lies down on the bed, and after a moment's hesitation I lie down beside him. Logan pulls me into his arms.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, he's never been opposed to cuddling. And it feels good to be held by him again. There's still a barrier between us, but the familiarity of his muscular arms and the sound of his breathing in my ear is comfortable. It's amazing the way our limbs unerringly find their old positions, even after months apart.

He whispers, so soft I have to strain to hear him. "Why do you hate her so much?"

"What?"

"Madison. Why do you hate her so much?"

"I hate her because she's a bitch. Isn't that enough?" My breathing is speeding up, and I can feel the sweat pooling in my armpits. I really, really, _really_, don't want to talk about this. _Shut up, shut up, shut up...just hold me._

But he doesn't shut up, and suddenly I've boarded a cruel rollercoaster of emotion, completely out of control as it careens downhill. I'm in an insane amusement park of distorted funhouse mirrors and rides where the floor suddenly drops out from under you. You must be at least 40 inches tall and emotionally traumatized to ride this attraction. Do not attempt to exit until the ride comes to a complete stop. Welcome to Madison World, the scariest place on earth.

He's insistent. He's decided we need to talk about this. "I know she's a bitch...I know, she wrote 'SLUT' on your car. It was cruel, it was horrible what she did...but Veronica, half the sophomore class wrote 'SLUT' on your locker that year. And I know...Madison passed you the drink with the GHB in it. But you _know_ she didn't know about that when she did it. There were a lot of people who were much worse to you than Madison was. Hell, _I_ was worse to you. I said it to your face. Veronica...I don't think we can get past this—"

"I don't want to talk about this," I retort.

This must be what rigor mortis feels like. Every muscle in my body has tensed. If he would just let me go, I'd run...run until I dropped in exhaustion, far away from— Except...there's really no 'far away' any more. There's no way to get away from this.

But I beg him to stop. I try to convince him that I'm okay with it all. "Can't we just drop this? I'm _okay_ with you sleeping with her, all right? I don't care. I don't want to talk about it." _Liar. You'll never be okay with..._

"Veronica, you _do_ care. We have to talk about this. We're going to be together all the time now, like it or not. We've got to be able to get along, at least as friends. So why? Make me understand. Why do you hate Madison so much?"

Damn him. _Damn_ him! I try to pull away from him, and he holds me tight. "Let me go, Logan. I don't want to talk about this."

"Please, Veronica. We have to talk about this."

"Damn you, let me go!" I try to pound his chest with my fist, and he grabs my wrist.

"Veronica. Please talk to me. Why do you hate Madison so much?"

"Because...because I needed _somebody_ to blame for my rape!"

His grip on my fist slackens, and I pull my hand away. "I don't understand. Blame the guy who did it to you...blame Beaver." I can hear the confusion in his voice. He's trying so hard, and I'm not making it any easier.

"No, you're not getting it. When I first started asking around...all I learned was that Duncan and I had ended up sleeping together that night. But I still felt _raped_. You don't know what it's like, to wake up without your panties and not know what happened. I felt _violated._ And I couldn't hate Duncan for raping me. For a long time, I _wanted_ to hate him, but I couldn't. I knew that Duncan had been drugged, and that he thought I wanted to have sex. He didn't know I'd been given GHB and couldn't say yes or no.

"Logan, I couldn't hate Duncan. You know that there's not an aggressive bone in his body. He would never have slept with me that night if he's wasn't stoned out of his mind, and if I hadn't been...oh god, I'm pretty sure _I_ was coming on to _him_ because of the GHB. Duncan was a victim just like me. So that left hating myself or hating Madison."

"What—? Hating yourself? Why the hell would you—"

"Because I...I let it happen. I took that drink without thinking."

Finally, he gets it. "And because Madison passed you the drink—

"Yeah. So in my mind, _she's_ the one who roofied me. _She's_ the one I blame for my rape. So, yeah, that's why I hate her."

"Veronica, that's ridiculous. Hate _me_. I'm the one that brought the Liquid X that ended up in your drink that night. And I'm the one who dosed Duncan!"

"Yeah, I couldn't do that either. I was pretty sure that I loved you." His breath catches at my words—the easiness with which I'd just blurted that I'd loved him. "...So you see, I kind of had no choice. It was easiest to just hate her."

"Do you really think I slept with her just to make you mad? Do you really think I could do that?"

"So then why _did_ you sleep with her?"

"Before the hearing...I was such a mess, Veronica. The lawyers told me that there was always a chance the judge would reject the plea deal we'd worked out, and that I had to be prepared to go to prison if that happened. Veronica, the lawyers said I needed to get 'my affairs' in order, just in case. And then they told me that the support of my family would be crucial while I was 'inside', so you can guess how optimistic I was feeling."

I try to imagine Logan calling Trina for help and support, and I know that he probably didn't even bother picking up the phone. It makes me ill to think of him going through all that alone, especially after what he'd done for me.

"That night in Aspen, I figured it might be my last chance to get drunk for a long time, so I really did it up. Enbom was feeding me shots, egging me on. I don't think I've ever been that drunk before."

"Even more than...? You know, the night when you made that speech..." I feel ridiculous and stop talking.

"The Alterna-prom? Yeah, drunker than that. I at least remember bits and pieces of that night. At Aspen, all I remember is that Madison was there and hanging all over me, and I kind of felt like I wanted to do the most degrading thing possible, because that was the kind of low-life that I was. I was sure they were going to find a way to throw the book at me, Veronica. I felt like scum.

"So yeah, I went off with her. But I don't remember anything about it. I woke up with her all tangled up in my sheets, and I couldn't believe that I'd been so stupid. Then Madison tried to kiss me, and I kicked her out of the bed. She accused me of saying your name in my sleep, and then she called me an asshole, and then I called her a fucking whore. Why do you think she made such a point of telling you about it? It was the easiest way to get back at me for throwing her out of my bed that morning."

I remember that old video loop I'd had in my head, my imaginings of their night together. It never included Logan throwing her out of his bed and cursing at her. This is a much better ending than that fade-to-black with the two of them in each other's loving arms that I've been obsessing about all these months.

"I fucked her and told her to hit the road, Veronica. That's all it was, I swear to you. And I hate that it hurts you what I did with her. I've never been that drunk before, and I'll never do it again."

"God, Logan. You said that the judge made you go to AA meetings...how did you ever go to those meetings without me finding out?"

He shrugs.

All those times when Logan tied one on at an 09er party...was he really more out of control than everyone else? He had way better booze than the rest of us because he had much more money to spend...but there were a lot of kids who were drunker and more stoned than him. I try to picture him saying, _'Hi, my name is Logan...and I'm an alcoholic,'_ and I can't imagine how difficult that had been for him. "Logan, do you think you might be an alcoholic?"

I can feel the tension throughout his body as he responds. This is hitting awfully close to home, for both of us. "I don't know. I wasn't really drinking when I was going out with Parker. Just a couple beers if we went out on the weekend. It felt okay to be sober most of the time."

"But you...you were drinking when _we_ were together. And you said you were drinking before you got arrested—"

"You don't make me drink, Veronica."

The speed of his response stuns me. "Did they teach you that at AA?"

"Not exactly. It was a lot of bullshit about turning yourself over to a higher power. I mumbled the phrases along with everyone else...I even stood up and 'shared' a couple times."

I know I shouldn't ask, but I can't help myself. "Do you want to tell me what you shared?"

"It's kind of the point _not_ to tell you, Veronica. Alcoholics _Anonymous_."

"Oh. ...Still, don't you think you could—"

Logan laughs. "You can't stand not knowing, can you? All right...I didn't really talk about you, if it makes you feel any better. I just talked about all the stupid things I'd done when I was drunk or high. And I talked about what a coward my mother was, the way she used to drink until she passed out while Aaron was beating me, and then she threw herself off a motherfucking bridge rather than go through a divorce, and I swore that I was never going to be a coward like her."

"You're not a coward."

"Yeah, maybe." He scoots a little closer. "A coward wouldn't be so afraid to snuggle with you like this. Right now, I'm scared out of my mind to be holding you like this."

It's true: he's dangerously close, courageously close to me. I think of all the times we've lain together like this, naked and horny for each other, teasing and tempting each other to just let go of everything, to just let the haze of sex cloud our brains so we'd forget all the tragedies we'd been through. His torso presses against my shoulder, and I feel the delicate thump of his heart beating and his chest rising and falling with his exhalations. I'm too aware of the clothes he's wearing—the seam of his jeans pressed against my leg, the thin cotton fabric of his shirt bunched between us—and I imagine what it would be like, to give in to the desperate heat of skin on skin.

With one finger, he traces the edge of my hairline. I'd forgotten how gently he could touch me, how deliberately he could use one finger to caress me until I begged for more.

As he plays with a tendril of my hair, in that timbre of arousal that always jangled my nerve endings, his voice, a little hoarse, confesses, "I've missed this. I love your hair, even brown like it is now. You know, in high school...I always used to look to see how you did your hair that day. Every other girl, she had one hairdo, maybe two, or maybe she'd pull her hair back into a ponytail once in a while.

"But you...once you started growing your hair out junior year, you started wearing your hair differently every day. You'd sweep it up off your face, or into those crazy pigtails way up high, or you'd pull it back with a little barrette. Or you'd curl it, or part it differently, or just let it fall down onto your shoulders all casual and flippy. I always wanted to see how you'd done it that day, because every new hairstyle made me look at your face in a new way."

He nuzzles against my neck, breathing in deeply. "I miss this too, the way your hair smells...the way _you_ smell. When you— when you— when you left...I wouldn't let housekeeping in the room for days because the pillow still smelled like you. Dick tricked me and let them in to clean...I almost killed him, because the maid took that pillowcase away."

I know that ache in his voice. I'd felt it too. Right about now, it would be so easy to turn my face and find his lips with mine. "What was your favorite?"

"Mmm?"

"Your favorite way that I did my hair."

His hot breath brushes against my ear, the soft exhalations a little symphony of longing. "I loved it when you pulled it back, that braid thing, when you weave it on the back of your head, what do you call that?"

"A French braid?"

"I guess. I liked that the best, because then I could really see your lovely face. But my favorite...my favorite is when your long hair swings across my naked chest when you're on top of me. I hope I get to see that again. I really want to see that again. I want to see you on top of me again, the way you look all out of control and just...so fucking unbelievably beautiful. I want to hear you cry out my name again. I've missed that so much."

Brutal, raw honesty, scary and heartfelt. I just let his emotions roll over me for a long minute.

"How do you do that?" I murmur finally. "The way you just _say_ it; you always just say everything you feel, without ever being self-conscious."

"Nothing's stopping you from telling me what you're feeling, Veronica."

"You want to know what I feel? I'm scared to death. I'm scared they're coming after us. I'm scared we're going to make a mistake. I'm...scared about getting close to you again. And I'm scared I'll _never_ get to be close to you again."

"You can't get much closer than we are right this second."

"I can think of a way to be closer." I lean over and press my lips gently against his, and just then there's a knock on the door, and Dad's voice calls out, "It's Backup."

As I jump up to get the door, I glance back at Logan, and for the first time in months, I see that old look in his eyes, that look that I'd extinguished when I broke up with him over Madison.

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THE NEXT CHAPTER IS AVAILABLE IN TWO VERSIONS, "T" AND "M". CLICK THE ARROW TO GO TO CHAPTER EIGHT, RATED "T". FOR CHAPTER EIGHT, RATED "M", PLEASE SUBSTITUTE THE FOLLOWING NUMBER FOR THE NUMBER AT THE END OF THE URL.

6586234


	8. Chapter 8: Please

**TITLE:** Please (8A/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith **  
WORD COUNT:** 2,656  
**RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

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**_I have posted another version of this chapter as a separate story under the "M" section of Veronica Mars. (_****6586234)****_ It contains adult content. This version is essentially the same, although it is not as explicit. You do not have to read the "M" version to understand what's happening in the story._**

**_

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_**

That night, I lie awake for hours, thinking about everything Logan and I had talked about. Everything I thought I knew about the past year has been changed. It's as if someone's given me a new pair of eyeglasses, and I'm finally seeing things as they are.

Dad had come back to the room, smelling of whiskey and breath mints, bearing newspapers from Dallas, Little Rock, St. Louis, and New Orleans, along with a few tabloids. He hadn't been able to find an LA Times or, what would have been even better, a San Diego Union-Tribune. I didn't ask about the drinking, and he didn't volunteer any information.

Dad was untalkative and pensive as the three of us leafed through the newspapers, hoping that we wouldn't see our names. People Magazine had a huge spread on Princess Diana's sons, and nothing on Logan. Of course Dad and I aren't big enough celebrities to make it into that rag.

The only mention of any of our exploits was a two-line blurb in the back of the Weekly World News that Logan Echolls, son of famed Hollywood star, the late Aaron Echolls, was missing and was presumed to have violated a probation agreement stemming from an assault charge in December.

'The late Aaron Echolls'—I always liked reading that phrase. It was almost, but not quite as good as reading 'Aaron Echolls fries for the murder of Lilly Kane.'

There was a small photo with the article: Logan, accompanied by his lawyers and beseiged by reporters, as he emerged from the courthouse from the preliminary hearing for the Felix Toombs murder trial. I'd been waiting in the limo that day, so thankfully I wasn't in the picture, and it wasn't a very clear picture of Logan, to our great relief.

The big news in the tabloids was Paris Hilton's impending incarceration for violating her probation. I felt sick as I read the gleeful accounts of how the judge was going to "throw the book at her", and I pictured Logan also becoming the victim of vengeful prosecution, mostly for the crime of being famous. And Lindsay Lohan had been cited for drunk driving and driving her up onto a curb, with what police called a "usable" amount of cocaine. The reporters seemed almost thrilled to report that the actress had screwed up yet again.

Still, Cliff had been right. The incessant reporting about the foibles of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton had driven Logan's crimes off the front pages. But once the jackals had gotten their fill of the big celebrities, it seemed likely that Logan would be their next target. I imagined exultant headlines blaring "Echolls Lashes Out Again, and the Judge Drops the Gavel" or "What's Wrong With Celebrity Kids—Why Can't They Behave?", with picture after picture of Logan, unfortunately photogenic and favoring his father's good looks, and editorials calling out for harsher sentencing to "send a message".

I sent a fervent prayer that Paris and Lindsay would keep being notorious and overshadowing Logan's exploits. They seemed to thrive on the publicity, and the threat of consequences didn't seem to even ping their radar. I hoped that they'd be page one fodder for a long, long time...long enough for us to get away.

Even as we suffered through the grim task of perusing the tabloids for bad news, Logan kept stealing glances at me, making it obvious he wished we were alone. Now that the light is back in his eyes, I wonder how I never noticed its absence these long months.

I don't know what Logan and I are going to do. It seems like we've just scratched the surface of our issues. And it had been cruel to only have time to kiss momentarily before Dad came back and interrupted us. I long to take Logan's hand, to lean against him and seek his comfort. But the three of us need to stay together and watch out for each other, and there's no question in my mind that it would be foolish for Logan and I to leave Dad's protection for even a short time to pursue some foolish romance.

What would we do? Have a date? Go see a movie at the drive-in and get a malted afterwards? Do we tell Dad we need some 'alone time' and ask him to skedaddle, looping a necktie over the motel room doorknob to ensure our privacy?

It's completely ridiculous. We need to cool it. I resolve to ignore my hormones and stop thinking about it. It's all just chemicals anyways.

But it doesn't mean that I can sleep. This motel, at least, is quiet, unlike our lodging from the previous night. We're in a room on the opposite side from the highway, and there's no traffic noise or drunken guests slamming doors. Dad falls asleep quickly, snoring a little louder than usual, and I wonder how many drinks he'd had. He's never been a teetotaler, but it surprised me that he'd taken the risk of going to a bar.

I stare up at the ceiling and try to count sheep. The alarm clock displays 2:14 when I get up and go to the bathroom. My face, in the glare of the fluorescent light in the bathroom, looks haggard and unfamiliar beneath the inexpert style of my brunette hair.

When I wash my hands and open the door to go back to bed, Logan is waiting outside the door, a finger held to his lips to silence me. He pushes me back into the room and turns out the light, shutting the door behind him. Other than a faint sliver of grayness outlining the edges of the door, it's completely dark.

I sense him leaning down to me, and, with his lips pressed close to my ear, he whispers, "I don't want to wake up your dad. We have to be quiet. I can't sleep either." And then he touches my face.

I find his ear with my lips. "He'll freak if he wakes up and we're not there."

I feel his smile against my cheek. "He's a detective, Veronica. He'll figure it out. But I promise you, he's sound asleep—he didn't even twitch when I got out of bed."

And then—just the sound of the two of us breathing in the blackness.

I sense him fumbling, getting his bearings—a hand brushing past me, then grasping me with more sureness. I'm turned and urged backward against the solidness of the door. Lips crushing my nose, trying desperately to find me, and I stand on tiptoes trying to reach him. And our mouths meet.

_...Oh yes. I remember this. Long nights in the X-terra when Dad thought we were seeing a movie, but really it was an excuse for hours of kissing and a hand teasing the edge of my bra and then...oh god, then he was underneath the fabric, cupping me, I remember that first time, how it felt—the unfamiliar sensations making me nauseous and afraid and oh god is this how it's supposed to feel, my whole body flushed red-hot with hormones surging out of control...  
_  
Strong hands around my waist, pulling me—I don't know what he's intending, but I don't care—and then his hands lift me up onto the sink. Just a gentle hint with his fingers and now I know what he wants. I wrap my legs around his waist and let his mouth sink to mine. My hands grope for his face...yes...here it is, the rough hint of day-old beard and familiar features. I don't need to see them; my fingers know these planes and hollows, the tough cartilage of an ear and silky hair beyond. A caress of his jaw. It's been so long since my fingers twisted in his hair, so long since I stroked his cheek.

His hands explore me...I hear his sudden subtle gasp as he trails his fingers down, exploring me. My breath judders as he touches me, and my flesh explodes into a thousand nerve endings of concentrated desire.

His breathing thrums so loudly in my ears, and I yearn to keen his name, to lament out loud the time we've lost. His fingers twist in the fabric of my t-shirt.

_...That first time I let him see me, my arms shyly crossed to hide my nakedness. He took my arms, gently opening me and looking at me, adoring me, his head bending to kiss the soft flesh, a hand caressing me and..._

He kisses me, a trail of wet adulation from chin to ear lobe. An impatient hand, entwined in my hair, and a single word, whispered.

"Yes."

It's a demand, a proclamation. I'm not given a choice as he grabs my arms and pull them around his neck. A strangled sound, suppressed in his throat, as I tongue him in a deep kiss.

_...All those times, fumbling in the backseat. I didn't know what I was doing, but every time I touched him, it seemed to please him. I'd loved him so, even if I never said it. I would have done anything for him. Until I didn't...  
_  
His breathing is loud and ragged, and then a sudden catch as he tenses in pleasure at my touch. Again his lips, wet and seeking, find mine, and he fills me with his tongue. My eyes squeeze shut, vision blacker than black with the red blots of electrical storms.

I kiss his neck, my lips desperate for his skin. Teasing, I tongue his ear, the tip gently flicking his ear lobe in a way that I know drives him crazy. And he can't help it—he moans, and both of us freeze, expecting the light in the bedroom to snap on and an angry voice to demand what the hell we're doing.

It stays dark; it stays quiet. And tentatively, helplessly, we resume kissing and caressing each other.

I hear him, I don't need him to say it, I know exactly what he's thinking...'oh god, Veronica, feels so good, love you'. I know that he loves me—he doesn't need to say it.

_...It was June and he'd shucked me out of my bathing suit in the pool house, and I'd never let him do *that*. I was afraid. I didn't like the creepy pool house because of the memories, still all too fresh with the video wiring ripped out and the new paint job all too obvious, but we needed to be alone and Mrs. Navarro was far away, up in the main house._

_We smelled like chlorine from hours of teasing each other in the pool, and I'd let him touch me everywhere else, but never that. His eyes were locked on mine as his fingers trailed down, down, a little insistent as my legs trembled, not very welcoming. And then...oh god, THIS is what they were talking about..._

He breathes, "Want to."

"Can't..."

"I know."

A strong hand grasps me around the waist, steadying me, and his hand touches my face as he bends to my lips again. He knows just how I like to kiss, after hours of practicing until we got it perfect. A gentle pressure, little circles of his tongue, pleasure building to intensity. I try to imagine how he'd be talking to me now, whispered declarations between kisses, 'love you, baby...love you, sugarpuss.'

_...That day in the pool house, we'd been fooling around for a long time, an hour it seemed. It felt very, very nice, incredible even, but nothing to write a song about or start a war over. And I started getting nervous, because it seemed like he was expecting more. I mumbled, "It's okay, let's go back in the pool, all right? I don't want you to get...bored." I'd pulled at him, trying to get him to stop._

_And he'd hitched himself up to my face, and, trapping my arms in his hands above my head, he'd kissed my protests away. And then he'd said, "I promise I'll let you know if you're boring me. But trust me, I could never be bored with you lying beside me. I want you to relax, okay? We're just going to do what feels good. Don't worry so much." Then he'd eased me over onto my front and climbed on top of me. With strong hands, he'd slowly massaged my back, caressing me and kneading me until I was a blob of jelly in his hands, and then he'd rolled me back over and started again, taking his time, kissing and caressing me and...  
_  
His frenzied breaths in my ear, a slight burn from the stubble on his cheeks. I tremble in his arms, the darkness giving me a little vertigo. Geometric patterns dance in the blackness of my vision, and I feel like I'll never get enough air again. His lips press a line of kisses on my neck as I pant and quiver against him—it's been so long since he made me feel this way.

We could be anywhere, here in the dark. It's not a motel, it's a luxury beach cottage in Hawaii, it's a pied à terre overlooking the Eiffel Tower, it's a condo in Vail, it's his bedroom at the Neptune Grand and we haven't screwed it all up, and that stupid blue fish is still intact above us, still the ugliest thing I've ever seen. We're not hiding, we're not running, my eyes are just closed because I can't bear how intense it is when he touches me.

"Love you," he breathes.

"Love you."

We hold onto each other for a long time, panting with unfulfilled desires, sweat cooling and cramped muscles relaxing. I become aware of a bruised hip that I don't remember hitting, and Logan straightens up and his back cracks audibly. I long to see his face, to lie in his arms and murmur nonsense syllables of love, but the best we can hope for is a few moments of tenderness in the dark and maybe something more in the days to come.

I reach for the doorknob to return to bed, and he puts his hand on mine to prevent me. "Want to hold you for a while," he whispers. Logan sinks to the floor, crossing his legs, and tugs on my hand to make me join him. Helping me to settle into his lap, he wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. I lean my head against him and relax into his embrace as I wrap my fingers around his upper arm. His hand traces light circles on my shoulder and he rests his head on top of mine.

Our breaths sync in rhythm as we hold on to each other in the darkness. And I think back to that lazy afternoon two years ago in the pool house when he'd been so patient with me.

Afterwards, he'd held me tightly as I quivered, and he'd sworn to me that it would be even better when we made love. When I was ready, he'd promised. And he was right, it _was_ even better...but it had been almost a year later before that happened.

Because that night, after such a perfect afternoon, he'd dropped me off at the Sunset Cliffs apartment and met up with his friends, and they'd burned down a swimming pool in the city park. And we'd started fighting, and eventually the fighting got to be too much. I grew so afraid of whatever it was that was going on with him that I'd had to break off the relationship.

So it had been the _next_ summer when we finally made love.

Six months was the longest we'd ever made it as a couple.

"Maybe this time."

I didn't even realize that I'd actually whispered it out loud until I heard him answer, "Maybe."


	9. Chapter 9: Perilous

**TITLE:** Perilous (9/?)**  
AUTHOR:** vanessagalore **  
CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 5,167 **  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and boobsnotbombs. All remaining errors are my responsibility. Thank you for your patience while I was unable to update. During a period while I was undergoing medical treatment, I missed replying to many reviews, but I plan to catch up. Thank you for your ongoing encouragement.

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_Summary up until now:_

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's BE at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

_Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

_When Keith leaves on a mysterious errand, Logan and Veronica comfort each other, talking about some of their mistakes and misunderstandings. Keith returns, reeking of scotch, with newspapers and tabloids, and they search for any mention of themselves. But they've been pushed off the front page by the escapades of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, and the only mention is a small article about Logan in the 'Weekly World News', a trashy tabloid. Later that night, Logan and Veronica find each in the motel bathroom and reunite, in an episode fraught with tentativeness and memories of old times, bad and good._

* * *

I feel...really warm. Really good. Best I've felt in ages. So relaxed. Safe. Comfortable.

And then the shouting starts.

"Veronica? Logan! Damn it! What the _hell_ did he do now? I'm going to kill him! God DAMN it!" Dad's voice reverberates throughout the motel room.

We must have fallen asleep after our tryst in the bathroom. I'm curled up on Logan's lap, with his arms draped over me. I look up at Logan; he's as befuddled with sleep as I am, and we struggle to our feet and hurry out to the bedroom, where Dad is furiously pacing. "Dad, please, it's okay. We were just talking."

"Bullshit."

"Daddy, please! Why are you so upset?"

"Veronica, this is very, very bad. He doesn't _ever_ think! What were you doing?"

"I told you, we were just talking."

To my surprise, Dad puts his hand over my mouth and starts shaking me. "Don't you understand? You can't do this! We have to be careful! You have to be quiet!" He shakes me again.

"Veronica! Be quiet!" A harsh whisper right in my ear. "Wake up! You're dreaming again."

I open my eyes cautiously. Logan's worried face looms over me, and I realize it's light out. His hand is pressed firmly over my mouth.

Shit! It's _light_ out. We fell asleep in the bathroom last night, and now it's morning. Oh god, if Dad heard me crying out in my nightmare...damn it, why do I keep having nightmares?

Logan removes his hand from my mouth and helps me to stand up. He struggles to get up and whispers, "Legs are asleep."

I help pull him up, and he leans on the sink, shaking one leg, then the other, until he can walk again. "One at a time," I mouth, signaling 'one' with my finger, and he nods. Opening the door soundlessly, I peek out. No signs of life in the bedroom. There's an unmoving large body under the mound of bed covers. I sneak over to my bed and pull the covers over me as I hear the toilet flushing.

Logan emerges a minute later, and I glare at him for making noise, even though I know I'm being ridiculous. "Sorry," he mouths with a shrug in my direction before getting back in the bed with Dad. He lies on his side looking at me, and I lie on my side looking back. Dad slumbers away, either unaware, or the coolest dad in the world.

Probably unaware, I decide. Dad's not _that _cool.

Logan smiles at me, giving me a covert thumbs up, and the four feet of space between our two double beds feels very cruel. I wonder if I'll get to be alone with him again anytime soon, and I close my eyes for a few minutes sleep before we have to start running again.

I try to imagine that Logan and I are anywhere but here, maybe sitting on the beach together in Neptune, watching the sunrise after spending the night talking about our hopes and dreams. Or we're curled up in Logan's bed at the Neptune Grand, caressing each other while we discuss what to order from room service and what we should do that day.

But whatever I imagine, Dad comes striding in to my fantasy, berating me for my foolishness, telling me that it's life or death now, not high school. He's angrier than I've ever seen him and furious at me for risking our safety. I toss and turn, arguing with him.

Finally, exhausted, I fall into a dreamless sleep.

•••••

I hear Dad murmuring, aggravated, and I open my eyes a crack to see him banging his electric shaver on his palm. The memories of last night's discussion and groping in the dark flood back into my brain. For a moment, I let myself feel utterly happy that Logan and I are 'together' again; I'm blissed out with the hormones bathing my body and the hope that maybe, somehow, some way...

"Dammit." He bangs the shaver on the bureau, a loud thunk that speaks of frustration rather than a rational hope of actually fixing the device. And I wonder if it's really me that he's mad at.

_Paranoid, much, Veronica?_

I decide that life on the run is getting to me, and, shaking off my fears, I adopt a breezy tone and hope for the best. "Hey, Dad. What's wrong?"

"Oh hey. Morning, honey. This thing quit on me."

Hmm. Something's off, but I don't feel the red-hot dagger of his disappointment. Definitely not _'I don't know how I'll ever trust you again.'_ Maybe it is just a broken shaver, the straw that broke the fugitive camel's back.

I look over to the other bed. "Where's Logan?"

"Getting breakfast. You were so zonked, we thought we'd let you sleep a little longer."

I throw off the covers and head for the bathroom, stopping to give Dad a quick hug on the way.

He surprises me by holding on tight. "You know, I had a crazy dream last night—in the dream, I woke up and you guys weren't here. Must have been the scotch."

"Yeah, must have been," I repeat. _He knows. _I take a breath to ask about the scotch, but the words die on my tongue.

I don't want to lie to him.

"Be careful, honey." He kisses my forehead and releases me. "You know, I know you're a grown woman, and—as much as I don't want to think about it—I assume you and he had, well, a _mature_ relationship in the past, but, Veronica...if we, uh, if we had to deal with a pregnancy on the run, I don't know what we'd do..."

_Oh god. _"We didn't— We're not going to— Dad, we're just, I don't know, trying to hang on to something good in the middle of all this. Holding each other when the nightmares come." It's not too far from the truth. I won't even let myself hope that Logan and I will ever have anything like a _relationship_.

"Yeah, I understand. Just be careful, okay?" There's a look on his face that I've never seen before, sad and knowing. I turn away, heading for the bathroom, but he stops me, an urgent hand on my arm. "You're not— you're not going to run off with him, are you? Because...um...I'm sorry I blew up at him yesterday."

"Dad, no! We're not planning anything, I swear to you." I'd almost rather he'd blow up at me like my nightmare, rather than this tentative apprehension.

"Just promise that you'll talk to me if...if there's anything you..." His voice trails off.

"I will. I promise." A little stunned, I kiss him on the cheek and head for the bathroom. Dad _knows_, and he's not going to kill Logan.

When I emerge from the shower, Dad and Logan are digging into scrambled eggs, grits and biscuits. I pause momentarily and assess: no tension, which means no man-to-man discussion about groping his daughter in the bathroom and the consequences of hormonal urges.

"There she is, fresh as a Georgia peach," Logan announces. His smile is genuine. I don't even mind his horrible hair color when I see him light up at my entrance. I sit down and his knee presses lightly against my thigh, a subtle signal of welcome. He's trying not to look at me—I remember him acting just like this junior year, hiding how he felt from Dick and Beaver, but if Dad hadn't already figured it out, he wouldn't be fooled for long.

I meet Dad's eyes momentarily and search his expression. Worry? Resignation? All that and something I don't recognize. "Eat your grits, honey," Dad urges in an overdone Southern accent. "They're dee-licious." His dark mood from last night seems to have lifted.

But I wonder...he's trying awfully hard to seem casual. Something in his tone reminds me—I can't quite remember when I heard him speaking like this.

Dad cleans his styrofoam container with a biscuit, popping the last bite in his mouth, and he smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Listen, we have to talk about a couple things. With what Cliff told us last night...I've been thinking quite a bit. The situation is a little more complicated than we thought, and I think we've made some mistakes."

"What are you talking about? We haven't—" I protest.

Dad shakes his head, cutting me off. "I'm assuming you guys haven't changed your minds. No second thoughts? It's not too late to turn ourselves in, you know." He checks his watch, and I wonder why we aren't rushing to get going the way we did yesterday.

And then it hits me: this is the exact calm tone underlaid with desperation that Dad had used when he was trying to contact me about Jake Kane's hard drive just a few days ago. _'Honey. Things have really hit the fan down here.'_

Logan says, "No. I haven't changed my mind. I think Gory filed those charges just to drive me out into the open."

"Veronica? How about you? You still want to keep going?"

I push away the images of Logan in jail, fending off smug Russian mobsters, and Dad growing old before his time, gray-haired and gaunt after years of prison food and the stress of confinement—probably with long stretches in solitary for his own protection. "Of course I want to keep going. We can't turn ourselves in. It's out of the question. I don't think any of us would be safe in custody."

Dad nods. "I agree. Here's the problem: we've stayed off the main roads, but our basic route has been a straight line. If anyone picks up our trail in a couple places we've been the last few days, they just have to draw a line through two points and they'll know where we're heading."

I try to stab a piece of bacon and the plastic fork flies out of my hand. When I bend over, to my surprise I see Dad's fingers working at his thumb under the table, pulling off bits of the fingernail as he speaks. It's a nervous habit I haven't seen since the media christened him the 'bungling local sheriff'. I sit back up, cleaning off the fork with my napkin, and look closely at Dad's face. There's a little tightness in his jaw, a clenching overlaid by stoic reassurance, for our benefit I assume.

Dad says, "I wanted to get off the roads as soon as possible, so I've been heading east as fast as we could go, but now I think that was a mistake. We've got to assume, whether it's true or not, that both Gory and Vinnie could be advertising a bounty for us."

"A bounty?" Logan says incredulously. "Vinnie can't do that, he's the sheriff—"

"You don't know what Vinnie's going to ask the judge for. And then he'll make a deal with some unscrupulous colleague for some money under the table." Dad's tone is a little sharp, and he takes a breath before continuing in a more normal timbre. "It's the way Vinnie thinks. I remember one time—" Suddenly there's a loud voice outside the door—a maid speaking colloquial Spanish—and Dad stops talking, jerking his head around to look at the door, before resuming his confident mask. "Never mind. Trust me, the one thing you can count on is you can't trust Vinnie."

"Vinnie made a deal with you to get Woody Goodman," I point out. "There are plenty of bounty hunters he could contact."

"What does he care?" Logan protests. "Why can't he just take payoffs from johns at the Seventh Veil like Lamb did?"

Dad shrugs. "The Fitzpatricks care. There's a reason why they backed Vinnie in the election. Liam would probably love to get me behind bars where half the population has a reason to keep him happy. Maybe he still thinks I've got Kendall's money hidden somewhere."

"Great, gulag refugees and meth head lunatics." Logan pushes his breakfast away, his eggs half-uneaten. He risks a glance at me, and I'm willing to bet he's remembering our encounter at the River Stix. _'There's blood everywhere.'_ I can still feel the tattoo gun vibrating through Liam's hand pinning me to the pool table.

I shake off my apprehension. I'm really losing it, obsessing about my old mistakes, when we need to _focus_. "There's only three directions out of Neptune: south, north, and east. Once Vinnie established that we were probably driving, he'd be able to narrow it down, using approximately how far we could have gone."

Dad nods. "We need to start zig-zagging, maybe even back-tracking. And when we're in populated areas, we need to have one or two of us hiding—lying down in the back seat. Maybe even pick up a hitchhiker, so that we have four passengers for some of the time. And have only one or two of us in the car when we buy gas."

He's right. The three of us fall silent. There are definitely ways someone could pick up our trail: traffic cams, alert gas station attendants, even vigilant state troopers warned to look out for three people matching our description. And with Vinnie's connections, or Russian and Irish mafia money, that could mean a network of bounty hunters and unscrupulous P.I.s watching for us in every small town.

Now I'm convinced that Dad is really scared. His new plans have a little sense of desperation. But I want to believe that he's going to get us out of this.

Dad breaks the silence. "Also I want to work on our disguises a little bit. Veronica, if you shop in the girls' department, you could probably shave five years off your age."

I grimace. The day that I had finally hit women's size zero had been a day of celebration. "Ugh. But you're right, it's a good idea."

"Logan, we need to find clothes that you would never wear. Something different from your usual outfits. I need a new electric razor too." Dad ruefully runs his hand over his scalp, which has a few small cuts blotted with tiny pieces of tissue from using one of Logan's disposable razors. He gazed at Logan critically. "Hmm. Logan, those overshirts you like to wear have got to go."

I kick Dad and try to get him to stop talking. Logan's leg, pressed up against my own, jumps nervously. "Maybe a sweatshirt instead," I suggest.

Dad frowns. "What's wrong with just t-shirts? I'm thinking, maybe something like Army surplus, fatigues and camouflage t-shirts. Again, it might make you look a little younger, which would work in our favor."

"I really don't like to wear short sleeves," Logan mutters.

"It's going to get up into the nineties today—a sweatshirt would stick out like a sore thumb. We can't take that risk."

Suddenly Logan stands up, knocking against the table. "Excuse me." His eyes meet mine as he heads for the bathroom.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Dad asks in a low voice.

"He's got a terrible scar on the inside of his wrist."

"A scar?"

"It's more—how he got it than what it looks like. From his childhood," I stress.

Dad inhales sharply, suddenly understanding.

We hear the water running. I want to ask Dad what's going on but I don't know how.

Logan comes back and sits down heavily. "So I suppose you told him the whole goddamn story?"

"All I told him was that you have a scar." I try to grab his hand under the table, but he pulls away.

Dad clears his throat. "Can I see it?"

Logan pulls back his shirtsleeve, his whole body slumped in defeat. He looks anywhere but at me or Dad. It's been a year since Aaron died, but the scars never heal.

Dad looks nauseated as he peers at Logan's arm.

It had been ages before Logan let me look at his wrist in the light. I always thought it was brilliant the way he'd turned his shame into a fashion statement. Brilliant, and incredibly sad, because the one thing that could destroy Logan was pity.

Logan's voice falters. "I, uh, told Mrs. Torelli, my third grade teacher, that my dad was, well, that he was hurting me. She promised me that she'd take care of it." That anxious twitch of his—pulling his fingers through his hair—today a little disconcerted at his unfamiliar new hairstyle. "So Mrs. Torelli called my father at home that night, and I heard him thanking her for letting him know that I was telling lies at school."

Three angry red scars in a row, slightly raised and roughened, and the exact diameter of a cigarette. Ten years of healing have made them less noticeable unless you know what to look for. They seem to pain Logan if they're accidentally touched, but I always wonder if that was psychological rather than physiological. I picture Logan, nine years old, screaming when the first cigarette made contact, and then held in place while Aaron assessed if the punishment was enough to ensure future compliance.

Logan mutters, "He promised me that I'd never forget the rules again." I hate that he's embarrassed, as if it's somehow his fault.

I imagine there was a short respite after the first burn, when the pain would have relentlessly ratcheted up as the initial endorphins and shock wore off. Logan would have been whimpering, trying desperately not to cry and failing. Then a second cigarette...I always visualize Aaron sucking the smoke into his lungs, casually watching as Logan's panic ramped up. Would Logan have tried to run? Would Aaron have locked the door? Did the handsome movie star pronounce that this would hurt him much more than it would hurt Logan, as he used his greater body weight to hold the little boy in place?

And then, unbelievably, a third time; and Logan would have wondered if Aaron was ever going to stop. Would Logan have begged and screamed? I think he did.

And I know, because I'd asked, that Lynn had been there for the whole thing. Some days I hated her more than Aaron, but Logan wouldn't hear of it as he clung to an idealized image of the woman who supposedly loved him more than anyone else in the world. He'd told me that Lynn had begged Aaron to let her take Logan to the hospital, but Aaron's rage had been fearful and Lynn agreed. And the result was that the scar healed poorly, ugly and vicious just like the abuse.

What a fucking coward Lynn was. You'd have to kill me before I'd let someone beat my kid.

I see all this reflected in my dad's eyes as he examines the flesh. Maybe he understands a little more now. His voice is as caring as I've ever heard it, because he's seen this all before and knows exactly what the scars signify. "Oh, god, Logan, I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Your father was an animal. And that was a terrible betrayal by your teacher. But I don't think the scar is as noticeable as you think."

"Oh, I know, rationally, that it doesn't look that bad. But Da— Aaron used to mock me, told me that he'd marked me because I was such a rotten kid. He said the scar was—" His face twisted. "It was like a neon sign that everyone could see."

My stomach heaves, my greasy breakfast threatening to regurgitate. He'd never told me that before.

"Logan, I'm so sorry that you didn't have anyone to protect you. I wish you'd have told me what was going on when you moved to Neptune and started hanging out with Veronica."

"I thought about it a couple times. But mostly you seemed to think, well, you thought I was a major fuckup. I didn't think you'd believe me."

It's not like Logan's legendary jackassery had ever been subtle, and Dad had certainly noticed it over the years—at late-night beach blowouts that Dad had had to break up as sheriff, at Homecoming, at Lilly's funeral, and then later on when Logan made the news for arranging bum fights. Dad never made a secret of his opinion of Logan's shenanigans, and, for all his faults, Logan could always tell exactly what people thought of him. That first summer when we went out, Dad had questioned what I saw in this guy over and over again, and he'd been more than ready to toss Logan out on his rear when we began fighting.

But now, Dad sighs heavily, his face dropping into his hands and his fingers massaging his temples. "I should have seen what was going on. It's obvious now that you were acting out. I knew, well, I should have seen that your father was a toxic person, but I just—"

"You saw what everybody else saw: he was the great and powerful Aaron Echolls, and I was the kid who was going to get your daughter in trouble." In a voice filled with self-loathing, he adds, "And you weren't really wrong."

Dad winces and tentatively puts an arm on Logan's shoulders. "Listen, I'm sorry I didn't look harder at your family situation while I was sheriff."

"Yeah." Logan's voice holds no conviction.

"I can't do anything about the past. But I'm going to try like hell to protect you now. What a mess. I know it's hard, but I need you to change your look. You've got to be strong about this. I'm very worried that we haven't covered our tracks well enough."

The urgency in Dad's voice seems to penetrate Logan's wounded shell, and Logan nods his head—he'll do what Dad asks.

"What aren't you telling us?" I curse my unsteady voice. I'm sure now that something is wrong, something more than just what Cliff told us. Dad drinking last night and then being quietly reasonable about me and Logan; the insistence on changing our route and appearance; and this leisurely breakfast while Dad tries to hide that he's as skittish as a cat...it's all adding up for me.

Dad fiddles with the plastic silverware from breakfast. "Second bar I went to last night, I found a guy who can get me a couple guns, no questions asked. I lucked out, picked a good sleazy bar on the second try. Had to buy a few rounds of drinks before the bartender helped me out and introduced me. I have to meet this guy in," he checks his watch, "about an hour, not too far from here."

I echo, "Guns? Dad—"

There's no air in the room. I force my lungs to suck in oxygen, and suddenly the door flies open, the chain lock clanking and the hollowcore wood splintering. The door bangs against the cheap sheetrock and ricochets back onto the extended arm of Vinnie Van Lowe, who's incongruously wearing his Members' Only jacket over a Neptune Sheriff's Department bulletproof vest. "Freeze, dirtbags!" I struggle to get my gun free, but it snags in my belt, and then... A single gun shot, followed by a hail of bullets, Dad throwing me to the floor and firing blindly. I hit the carpet hard, my skull bouncing with a jolt, and I see Logan's eyes, sightless, blood oozing from—

_We're_ the dirtbags. _We're_ the hardened criminals advertised on an all-points bulletin. Armed and dangerous. Natural born killers.

I never thought I'd be anyone other than one of the 'good guys'. And maybe I understand that desolate look in Dad's eye a little better now—the man who made criminal justice his life, accepting that we're now the lowlife punks who deserve to be behind bars, and deciding that a gun battle with our pursuers might just be okay.

Dad is fumbling with his plastic fork, drawing little designs on the table. His voice drones on, as if a discussion of arming ourselves is normal breakfast conversation. He looks right at me, intent and serious, and I tune in again. "...Let me make this clear. If we're apprehended by law enforcement, we surrender. But I can see a scenario...if Gory or Liam have people looking for us..."

Logan interjects, "You mean that they might be gunning for us." He looks just like I feel: off-kilter, a little dazed at the concept of a gun fight.

"I think it's likely that, if the Sorokins or the Fitzpatricks catch up with us, they'll shoot first and ask questions later. And I want each of us to have a weapon, in case we get separated, or if we need to back each other up. Remembering, of course, that this is only for emergencies. You remember how to handle a gun, Veronica?"

"Yeah, I remember." I also remember the way Mom and Dad used to fight about having a gun in the house, even in a gun safe. But when Mom left and I started working cases with Dad, he made sure I knew how to use his handgun and gave me the combo to the gun safe, just in case. I'd never really thought about how unusual that was until just this second.

Logan stares at me in surprise. He saw me handle Beaver's gun; he knew from the trial that I'd pointed a gun at his dad on the night Aaron was taken into custody. But I can see that he'd never considered that my dad had taken me to a gun range and made sure I knew exactly what to do with a gun in my hand. _'You are not a killer, Veronica.'_

Except maybe I'd have to be, now. And on some lonely nights, I wonder if I would have killed Beaver if Logan hadn't been there. Justifiable, I think they call it.

"Logan?" Dad prompts. But his eyes remain on me as well, and I wonder if he knows what I'm thinking about. Will I be able to shoot to kill to save his life or Logan's? Or my own?

You bet I will.

"Wh-what?" Logan's still staring at me as if he doesn't know me.

"Have you ever handled a gun? We don't need another tragedy because of carelessness or inexperience."

"I went shooting with Dick and his dad one time. Mr. Casablancas said I did pretty good, and he, uh, lent me a gun for a little while."

Dick's dad had told Logan, _'Given your situation, you should just move out of Neptune...move out of Neptune...move out of—' _That whole summer, it had felt like the X-Terra had a target on it. I couldn't breathe then either.

Funny: I don't feel any safer now that we've left Neptune.

Dad frowns. "Mr. Casablancas? What—" He sighs heavily. "It'll have to do. I don't want to make any more mistakes, so we can't stop and practice shooting. I'll review the basics with you."

"Don't worry, I'll know what to do," Logan says, with a quick glance at me.

He'll be able to pull the trigger too, I know. And when Dad nods at me, I understand that that was exactly why he was okay with our bathroom rendezvous.

But it doesn't mean that there's any oxygen in the room.

•••••

While Dad went to buy guns, he sent me and Logan shopping for new clothes. I'm in a K-Mart girls department trying to buy the opposite of what appeals to me. With a sigh, I hold a pink shirt, size 14, featuring a glittery design, up to my torso. It's just barely large enough. A clerk passes by, and I turn away, pretending to look through another rack of shirts.

All morning, I've been imagining preposterous car chases, with Dad weaving all over the road and screaming at me and Logan to shoot at the car tailing us. Or a confrontation in a motel room, Dad trading shots with a smarmy mafioso, until...Dad's shirt, and then mine, erupts in a gout of red blood...Logan tries to be a hero and... A ludicrous Wild West shootout, complete with tumbleweeds and horses whinnying—Vinnie wearing an absurdly big six-pointed gold star on his Members' Only jacket, with six-guns strapped to his hips.

And right this moment, Dad's buying two guns. Who knows if this is a setup by an undercover cop? He could be headed to jail right now and the only way we'd know is—

The clerk taps me on the shoulder and I almost screech out loud. "Miss, do you need help?" She looks at me quizzically, and then points to the women's department. "I think you could wear some of the smaller ladies shirts too, if you don't find anything you like here."

"I think I'm all set. Thanks," I say with a smile that I don't feel. I turn away quickly, hoping she won't remember my face.

I pay for my purchases and walk a few blocks down the road to an Office Depot, where I pick out three jump drives that are large enough to hold some of the most damaging information from Jake Kane's hard drive, namely Gory's confession and a few other juicy tidbits. I'd suggested that we should each be carrying a portable copy of our insurance policy just in case, and Dad agreed.

I exit the store. Dad had said an hour and a half at most. No sign of him. I grab a coffee at Daylight Donuts and sip it as I watch the cars drive past, pretending that I'm not really looking. I can't stop fidgeting and worrying as I picture Dad lying facedown on the pavement, busted.

It's a few minutes before Dad pulls up. He nods at my quizzical look. "A Glock 19 and a Walther P22." He doesn't tell me anything else about the buy, and I don't ask.

We drive down the road to the Walmart where we left Logan ninety minutes earlier. The traffic is heavy, and Dad frowns. Everything has the potential to be worrisome now. He taps on the steering wheel, and I will the cars to move faster and get out of our way.

In front of the Walmart, the reason for the delay is revealed: a police car and an ambulance, both with lights oscillating, are blocking the main road. A large crowd is gathered, and cars are rubbernecking as they approach the scene. I suck in my breath, every muscle tightened to a painful tension.

Finally, we pull alongside and see an elderly lady on a stretcher being worked on by two paramedics. And a dark-haired white man—obviously in the process of being arrested—is bent over the squad car as an officer searches for weapons. He's wearing jeans and a flapping long-sleeved shirt, and he's not resisting arrest.

When he turns his head slightly, we recognize Logan.


	10. Chapter 10: Palpitation

**TITLE:** Palpitation (10/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,506 **  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:**I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and boobsnotbombs. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's BE at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

_Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

_When Keith leaves on a mysterious errand, Logan and Veronica comfort each other, talking about some of their mistakes and misunderstandings. Keith returns, reeking of scotch, with newspapers and tabloids, and they search for any mention of themselves. But they've been pushed off the front page by the escapades of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, and the only mention is a small article about Logan in the 'Weekly World News', a trashy tabloid. Later that night, Logan and Veronica find each in the motel bathroom and reunite, in an episode fraught with tentativeness and memories of old times, bad and good._

_Keith privately tells Veronica he knows about the bathroom encounter, and is surprisingly calm—on the surface. He tells Logan and Veronica that he feels that they haven't been cautious enough, and they will not only have to work harder on their disguises, but he is also purchasing weapons for all three of them. They split up, and when Keith and Veronica go to pick up Logan, they see him being arrested, while an elderly woman is being treated by paramedics._

* * *

I know this feeling. This is stars tumbling nauseatingly overhead as I sway from foot to foot, a thousand bits of embedded asphalt roofing searing the nerve endings of my palms. This is a clear black night of wind and vertigo and distant traffic noises, and the residual muscle twitches of 50,000 volts jangling my internal wiring. This is hitting speed-dial with no answer, _pick up, pick up, pick up!,_and then fireworks—the person you love most in the world exploding in front of your eyes. And suddenly, walking off the side of a building seems quite reasonable.

This is Logan, disappearing from my life, as we glide past at five miles per hour.

"Honey. ...Veronica! Stay with me. What do you see?"

"Wha— What?" I turn to Dad.

"I want you to turn around and tell me everything you see. I don't want to be too obvious that we're interested more than anybody else, and the last thing we need is for me to rear end somebody."

It takes a second to penetrate. "What?" I'm a broken record. _I'm broken._

"What do you see?" Dad adjusts his mirrors to try to watch as I turn around in my seat.

"Um. The cop is talking to Logan. Logan has handcuffs on...behind his back, he's leaning against the car. The cop is looking through Logan's backpack. There are a couple shopping bags next to the car that say Walmart." I see him leaning against the cruiser, and I realize he's lost weight, his jeans sagging from his hips. What was it, ten days ago that he mistakenly beat up Piz? I wonder if he's had a decent meal in all that time.

Dad interrupts my train of thought. "Just one cop?"

I struggle to pay attention again. "I think so." I don't understand what Dad is doing. _Why are we— Aren't we going to just leave Logan, run for the hills as fast as we can?  
_  
"Keep watching. I need to know right away if you see a second cop, but I'm betting they ride solo in this town...in the daytime, at least. What about the paramedics?"

"Two of them. They're working on an older woman, maybe 70, 75. She's awake, but not moving much. She's got an oxygen mask on, and there's a defibrillator, and they've got an IV going. ...Now the cop is pushing Logan into the back seat and closing the door."

Dad nods. He could see most of that in his mirrors. "How many people standing around?"

"Maybe fifteen, twenty."

"You sure you don't see another cop?"

"Positive. He's talking on the car radio now."

I glance back at the road ahead. It's three lanes here, with the middle one reserved for left turns, and the ambulance has blocked two of them. No one's directing traffic, but people are being reasonably civilized, mostly taking turns, one car from the north and then another from the south.

"What's happening now, Veronica?"

"The policeman's got a clipboard, and he's talking to the people gathered around."

"Interviewing witnesses," Dad muses. "What make of police car is it, Veronica?"

_How the hell can he be so calm? What are we going to do?_"Chevy, I think."

"You need to be sure, Veronica."

I strain my eyes. "Definitely Chevy. A few years old."

"Like that cruiser Sacks usually takes?"

"Yeah, like that." I'm sure, now that Dad reminds me. The Chevy cross logo, same shape headlights and horizontal black grill in a curved cutout. The familiar light bar on top. Not black and white, with the black and tan lettering and trident logo of the Neptune fleet—this car is solid white with bold blue lettering saying 'POLICE' on the doors and 'City of El Dorado' on the rear bumper. But yes, just like Sacks's car.

I feel a little more in control as I concentrate on watching. Dad glances at me quickly before returning to watch the road. "You're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Good."

"What do you think happened?"

Dad shakes his head. "I don't know. An accident, maybe, and Logan was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Suddenly we're past the bottleneck, but Dad immediately puts on his blinker and turns right into a parking lot. Several detached buildings are set about thirty feet back from the roadway, with a passthrough between each building leading to the back, where there is more parking, and presumably loading docks or service entrances. At either end, there is dense, scruffy landscaping badly in need of trimming or replanting. The building on the end, where we are, displays a large sign, 'For Rent', and the building next door advertises exotic dancers. Two doors down is a Chinese restaurant with one car in front, a bagel shop, and a check-cashing place. There's not much activity altogether.

Dad looks around one last time before driving through the passthrough and parking behind the building, the car still running. There's no one around. A dumpster, two hinged lids ajar, and scattered broken beer bottles are the only things behind the building.

"What are we doing?" I ask.

"Come on." Leaving the driver's door open, he walks to the trunk, popping it as he goes. He retrieves a red suitcase full of disguises and hands me a blonde wig, a large floppy sunhat and oversized sunglasses. "Put the glasses and hat up front, and put the wig on."

I would have known anyways not to discuss his instructions, but his voice makes it clear. There is one person in charge right now. By the time I get back, my wig in place, he's put on a wig and a ball cap, and he's using a marker to change the license plate from 3E3 76C to 8B8 Z6O. "Grab those two blankets and the lock picks and throw them in the backseat," he mutters tersely, concentrating on his task. "Take the police band radio up front too and plug it into the lighter." The new plate number he's inking wouldn't fool anybody in law enforcement, but I'm guessing Dad's hoping a civilian witness will take down the wrong number.

He moves to the front of the car to repeat his task with that plate. I put everything into the car and join him just as he stands up. "Take the Glock," he says, handing it to me. I check the safety as Dad walks back to the rear of the car and rummages in the trunk again, donning a black windbreaker that looks vaguely official. From his briefcase, he pulls out a clipboard, a pen, and a few important-looking forms, and finally his old sheriff's badge on a lanyard.

Because we left town so quickly, he never turned in his official badge, I realize. I wonder if he's got an actual uniform stored in the trunk as well. He loops the badge around his neck and hides it underneath his polo. "I'm going across the street. As soon as the ambulance leaves, I'm going to dial your phone. Make sure it's on vibrate."

I check it as he talks. "Here's what you're going to do."

I nod, paying close attention as he tells me his plan.

•••••

After moving the car to the front of the building, pointing in the direction of the exit onto the roadway, I sneak back as quickly and discreetly as I can behind the empty storefront. I wait nervously, pacing a little, my cell phone gripped tightly in my left hand and the Glock, safety off, in my right.

It smells of old rotted trash and stale beer behind the building. I lean against the building, waiting for Dad's signal, and try to control my fast breathing as a breeze pushes an empty plastic water bottle around the parking lot.

I'm not sure whether to hope or not hope. The thought crosses my mind that I might get hurt, might— I check the safety on the Glock again and tell myself I'll be able to shoot when I need to.

_If something goes wrong, if Dad gets arrested too— What happens if...if I'm alone?_

I look again at the cell phone, sure that twenty minutes have gone by, but it's been only five minutes since Dad left me alone. The traffic noise from the busy street beyond the building sounds like a murmured rush, a constant blend of accelerating and decelerating traffic noises and the occasional penetrating blare of a radio.

A rat pokes his head out of the dumpster and I suppress a scream. I check the phone again.

_Ring, dammit!_

I hear the distant 'whoop, whoop' of a siren, and then the cell vibrates right on cue. Pointing the Glock directly vertical, I fire three quick shots into the air and start screaming. I count to ten and fire once more before screaming again, this time a loud blood-curling scream as if I was in mortal danger.

It's not hard to sell it, because my life depends on it. Our lives.

My phone vibrates again. Stuffing the Glock in my waistband under my shirt, I duck around the side of the building, on the opposite end from the passthrough. One of the scraggly bushes tears at my shirt, and I rip the cloth free and run to the front where the car is waiting. I start up the car and pull into the street, barely checking to see if any cars are coming. As I drive toward the Walmart, I plop the sunhat on my head and put on the glasses—silly ruses that anyone who knew us would know were bullshit. But the idea is that someone might see only the hat and miss the face.

Fifty feet down the road, in front of the Walmart, I see a figure leaning into the driver's seat of the police cruiser—Dad's unlocking the back door with the emergency release lever. By the time I pull up, he's yanked the door open and he's helping pull Logan out. I swerve into oncoming traffic and stop with a screech of brakes right beside them, reaching behind me to open the door for Logan, whose hands are still manacled behind him. Logan scuttles onto the seat. Dad's retrieved Logan's backpack and purchases, and he throws himself into the backseat right behind Logan, yelling, "Go!" I hit the gas as he pulls his legs in and slams the door.

•••••

Logan's breath is raspy in the enclosed space of the car as we hurtle down the road. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"What?" I look back at him in the rearview mirror, but just for a second, because I'm concentrating on driving. We're heading back in the direction from which we came, so it's relatively familiar. The cheap motel we stayed in last night is coming up in a couple miles. Even though the bottleneck has thinned out, there's still too much traffic and I'm forced to weave into the left turning lane to pass slower cars. Each time I pass another car, I feel incredibly conspicuous, as if there was a neon sign on the car declaring that we were fleeing the law.

Up ahead, I see a sign reading 'W Hillsboro St.-To Magnolia Highway / US Highway 82, Next Right'.

"Not too fast, Veronica." Dad is breathing hard as well. "Turn right up here. As soon as you can, turn the radio on."

The light is a steady green as I turn right onto West Hillsboro.

No sirens. No all-white police cruisers with flashing lights looming large in my rearview.

It could be just another sunny day in Arkansas, but it's not.

Logan, still upset, protests again, "You should have left me. Now they'll be chasing all of us."

Dad barks, "Logan, be quiet and turn your back to me, I'm going to try to get these cuffs off."

I reach down and flip the dial on the police radio. We hear some static as the radio scans available frequencies, and then a police dispatcher's faint voice.

_»All units, shots fired at 2730 Northwest Ave, Walmart shopping center. Suspects have fled in a gray Ford Taurus, partial license 8B8, heading southbound on Northwest Ave. Any units, respond. 11:37.«_

Logan turns around and I catch his eyes in the rearview. He looks defiant as ever, and I remember that he's been detained in a police cruiser more than a few times. "You guys are crazy. Why didn't you just _leave_ me there?" he repeats.

"Logan, listen! You're going to do exactly as I say," Dad says as he works the lock picks. "When I tell you, and not before, you and I are going to lie on the floor. We're going to have to pull the blankets on top of us to hide us from sight." He leans forward to look a little closer at the cuffs, and then there's a satisfied mutter—"Got it"—as one cuff is released.

_»This is unit 228 responding. I'm on Route 335, heading eastbound, ten minutes to the scene.«_

_»Unit 228 responding to 2730 Northwest. Any units in the vicinity of Highway 82, respond. 11:38.«_

Logan pulls his hands in front of him, one cuff still attached and the other dangling. "Don't you understand? They know we're here now—"

"Logan, shut up and do what Dad says," I say. The road opens up into four lanes, and I take the left lane, speeding up a little. Up ahead, the road merges directly onto US Highway 82 West, with a sign indicating a curving ramp on the left to go east. "Dad, which direction when we get to Highway 82?"

Dad peers intently around us, looking at each vehicle. "I'll tell you in a second," he replies, almost absent-minded as he watches the traffic, assessing the possibilities. "Okay, Veronica, there's a car up ahead in the left lane. Pull along beside it on the right, and maintain the same speed. Then, just as you get to the left turn for the onramp, cut them off and veer left over two lanes onto Highway 82 going east. Make sure they remember us."

"Okay." My fingers clutch the wheel too tightly, and I remind myself to breathe and relax. _Dad knows what he's doing. It's okay, it's okay, we're just running from the frigging cops. Fuck!_

We see the arrow indicating the onramp, and Dad says, "Now, Veronica!"

I hit the gas and pull ahead just enough to get clear of the other car, and we swerve left onto the highway ramp. There's a blare of horns, and, if I'd bothered to look, I'd bet a few extended middle fingers.

Dad is turned around looking to see if anyone has followed us onto the highway. "Good job, Veronica. As soon as we're clear of any cars around us, ditch the hat and wig and we'll get on the floor."

The onramp curves sharply onto the highway, almost reversing our previous direction. Slowing my speed to a more dignified level, I watch in the rearview as Dad gets on the floor between the seats. Logan gingerly lies on top of him and covers them up with the blankets.

_»Dispatch, do you have any information on suspects?«_

_»Three suspects. First suspect, identified as Logan Echolls, wanted in California on two charges of felony battery and probation violation. 19 years old, light brown hair, 6', 170 lbs. Older man believed to be Keith Mars, 45, 5'8", weight 165, balding, ex-law enforcement, indicted on evidence-tampering. Third suspect, Veronica Mars, daughter of Keith, female, 19, 5'1", 100 lbs., blonde, licensed P.I., burglary suspect. Suspects believed to be armed and dangerous. Neptune Sheriff's Department advises suspects are extremely resourceful. 11:41.«_

_»Copy that, dispatch.«_

Logan's voice is a little muffled. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

Dad says, "You can tell us what happened later. We gotta stay under the blankets for now. Veronica, is it clear?"

"Yes, all clear. We're on the highway going east." I take off the hat and wig.

"Put the cruise control on...57."

"It's 65 here, Dad."

"Okay, 64 then. Take the first exit, remember?"

"You got it." Dad's measured voice is the only thing that's keeping me from screaming my head off.

"You're stopping?" Logan sounds incredulous.

If we get through this, I'm going to hurt him. "Logan, Dad knows what he's doing. He knows police procedure. We're backtracking instead of running."

Dad's muffled voice adds, "There's no way we'd get this car through a roadblock."

We travel just a minute or two, and then I see a sign for Haynesville Highway. "Here we go." I put on my blinker and merge right to exit.

"Tell me what you see, Veronica." Dad's voice is so freaking calm. I don't know how he does it. I feel like my voice is at least an octave higher than usual.

"I'm on the offramp, and the road goes underneath the highway running perpendicular."

"Go left and get back on the highway westbound."

"Okay." There's only a stop sign at the end of the exit ramp, and I speed up to get there, blowing off the stop and turning left well in front of a car coming down the road from my right. We travel underneath the highway, and I turn left back onto the highway, reversing our direction—heading back toward downtown El Dorado.

"What's happening?"

"I blew through a stop sign. There are only a couple cars...we're back on the highway going the other direction."

I focus on Dad's voice as he instructs me. "Okay. Retrace our steps; get off 82 and head back onto West Hillsboro going east. Go past Northwest Avenue a couple blocks until you see the big office tower on your right."

I jump a mile high when the radio scanner suddenly crackles with static.

_»What's your 20, unit 230? 11:46.«_

_»Unit 230 responding. Heading east on US82. Five minutes to the scene.«_

_»230, any sign of the gray Taurus? 11:47.«_

_»Negative.«_

And right on cue, as we approach the turnoff for West Hillsboro, from the left a squad car flies by directly in front of us, full lights and siren blaring. It precedes us as we retrace our steps back into town.

"Veronica?" Dad's voice is tense.

My voice is a little shaky. "They're in front of us. They didn't see us." I merge right onto West Hillsboro eastbound, as calmly and confidently as I can, considering that I'm trembling with adrenaline. This might be the hardest thing I've ever done: driving back into El Dorado, where all the cops are on high alert. Every instinct is telling me to pull a U-ey and go back to the highway, heading straight out of town.

"You're okay?" Dad asks, persistently.

"I'm great." _Yeah. I'm just great._

"Don't change the plan. You're behind them, they can't see you."

"I know. I'm okay."

When we get to the intersection of West Hillsboro and Northwest Avenue, we hit a stoplight. A older man in a pickup truck glances over at me and looks away, uninterested. I try not to look to the left, in the direction of the Walmart a mile away where everything happened twenty minutes ago. The light changes, and, resisting the urge to gun it, I accelerate sedately with the traffic.

"Okay, we're past Northwest Avenue," I announce.

"Look for the big white tower on the right. Biggest building around."

"I see it."

"All right. You're going to go past the main building and then turn right into the parking garage. Take a ticket from the machine and go all the way to the top."

I stop at an orange barrier arm and punch the button for a ticket. It's an unattended garage, and in the adjacent lane there is an automatic payment machine for exiting patrons. Seconds tick by, and there's no response. "Come on, come on, come on," I mutter, barely resisting the urge to push it again, when the machine finally spits out a thick white ticket. The arm raises interminably slowly and I go, following the signs for 'Parking Straight Ahead', up a steep incline into the garage.

As we climb levels in the parking garage, the number of parked cars begins to thin out. We see one car exiting, going in the opposite direction, and I hold my breath, hoping that he's not paying attention. I go past two levels with no parked cars at all, and I see a daylit space up ahead—the top level of parking is open-air on the roof. Slowing down, I pull into a parking spot in the last enclosed section, shut off the car, and slump over the steering wheel.

_»All units. We have a phone tip that a gray Taurus, female driver, two male passengers is heading east on US-82 at a high rate of speed. 11:58.«_

In my rearview, I see Logan and my dad struggling to a seated position.

"Good driving, honey." Dad squeezes my shoulder, and I burst into tears.


	11. Chapter 11: Precipice

**TITLE:** Palpitation (11/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 2,638 **  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:**I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and boobsnotbombs. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's BE at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

_Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

_When Keith leaves on a mysterious errand, Logan and Veronica comfort each other, talking about some of their mistakes and misunderstandings. Keith returns, reeking of scotch, with newspapers and tabloids, and they search for any mention of themselves. But they've been pushed off the front page by the escapades of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, and the only mention is a small article about Logan in the 'Weekly World News', a trashy tabloid. Later that night, Logan and Veronica find each in the motel bathroom and reunite, in an episode fraught with tentativeness and memories of old times, bad and good._

_Keith privately tells Veronica he knows about the bathroom encounter, and is surprisingly calm—on the surface. He tells Logan and Veronica that he feels that they haven't been cautious enough, and they will not only have to work harder on their disguises, but he is also purchasing weapons for all three of them. They split up, and when Keith and Veronica go to pick up Logan, they see him being arrested, while an elderly woman is being treated by paramedics._

_Keith and Veronica mount a daring rescue of Logan. With Veronica driving, they flee the scene. They successfully manage to trick the police into thinking they're heading east on the highway, but instead backtrack__ to a parking garage not far from where Logan was arrested._  


* * *

When I start crying, Dad gets out of the back seat and comes around to the driver's side. He opens my door and pulls me into his arms. "It's okay, honey, it's okay. We're going to be okay."

Logan gets out of the car and says, "I'm so sorry—"

I turn to him violently. "Can't you _ever_ shut up?" And I start sobbing even harder.

Dad pats my back and squeezes me tighter. "Shh. Shh. Veronica. You've got to pull it together. We have a lot to do. Come on. We're all right now."

_For now_, I think. We're hunkered down five minutes from where it all went down, hoping that the cops have been lured into following a gray Taurus east on US-82. And so far, Dad's plan seems to have worked. But we can't stay here forever.

"I'm okay," I mutter and pull away.

"Mr. Mars, I think you just aced me out of my bad boy title. You make a really good criminal."

Dad laughs. Rolling my eyes, I ask, "Seriously, Logan, do you ever keep quiet?"

"It's not really my forte, as you know—"

Dad interrupts, "Okay. Focus. We've got to get new transportation and do a few other things." He looks in the back seat and pulls out the Walmart bags. "You got the electric shaver I wanted?"

"Yeah, it's in there. Plus I got a great outfit for you, ZZ Top meets shitkicker farmer." Logan paws through the bags, coming up triumphantly with a box labeled Braun.

"And the batteries?"

Logan nods. "Uh, Mr. Mars?" He holds up his left wrist, which still has a cuff locked around it. "I think this exquisite bracelet might be a dead giveaway."

"Right, of course. Sit up on the trunk so I can see the lock as well as possible." Dad roots around in the back seat, finding the lock picks that went flying when I veered onto the highway at full speed. "Got 'em." As he returns to Logan, he sorts through the ring of different sized lock picks, finding the one that had worked before. "Veronica...clean off the marker from the license plates."

I frown. I'd assumed that we were going to dump the car and hadn't expected that we'd bother with the altered plates, but I don't argue. This is Dad's show, and he's made it completely clear to us that he's the only chance we've got to get out of this without being arrested or killed. I assume that he's thinking that anything confusing the picture here in El Dorado might give us a little more time to get away. Grabbing the package of Wet Ones from the front seat, I restore the front license plate to its original state. "Logan, what the hell happened back there?"

"That old lady had a heart attack. There were people standing around—no one would do anything except call 911. I— I'm sorry, she wasn't breathing, and I know CPR because Dick and I took a class in case if we ever got in trouble surfing, you know, and so—"

"It's okay," Dad says. "We understand. You couldn't stand there and do nothing."

"Then somebody recognized me while I was doing chest compressions. I didn't answer them—they kept asking me if I was Logan Echolls—I just kept my mouth shut and ignored them. But I couldn't stop, I couldn't just walk away. She still wasn't breathing; she didn't revive until the paramedics got there and took over. I tried to slink away, but someone told the cop who I was, and he grabbed me as I was leaving. When I refused to show him ID, he arrested me."

"He must have radioed in your name and found out about the felony charges," Dad comments.

"Yeah. Just my luck that the one person in Arkansas who reads the 'Weekly World News' was there."

The license plate is back to its pristine state, and I stand up and head to the rear of the car, my eyes meeting Logan's as I walk.

Logan says again, "I don't understand why you didn't just leave me there. You should have left me."

Dad doesn't reply, just keeps working the lock pick in the handcuff. I scrub at the rear plate diligently, not knowing what to say. As I finish the job, Dad finally gets the cuff off Logan's wrist, and my lovable jackass jumps off the trunk.

"Okay. Back in the car, both of you." Dad takes the wheel this time. After backing out the car from the space, he turns and heads back down into the parking garage until we begin to see parked cars again. "Both of you...look around for cameras."

"I don't see any," I say. It's another thing I didn't even think about. I've never been more glad that my dad is smart and calm in a crisis.

Dad drives slowly, looking at each car. He pauses at a Honda Civic with a bike rack and a multitude of stickers advertising national parks and bicycle clubs, but ultimately he shakes his head and moves on. Another car, a extremely dirty GMC Jimmy SUV with two child seats in the rear seems to interest him, but again he moves on. Finally, he nods his head, apparently satisfied. Popping our trunk, he parks next to a Chrysler Sebring coupe and gets out to peer in the driver's window. "No alarm light. And a full tank of gas."

We get out of the car and look with him. The car looks to be about ten years old, tan, very clean. It's a very middle-of-the-road car—no flash, nothing to draw attention.

"I guess we're not planning to outrun the cops," Logan remarks.

"It's okay not to express everything you're thinking, you know," I say under my breath. He hears me and looks stricken, and I flush. I don't understand why I'm so aggravated at him—it wasn't his fault that lady had a heart attack. But his flip remarks when there's trouble always drive me crazy. '_I suppose I would have had some 'splainin' to do.' _I mutter, "I'm sorry. Just try to focus."

Dad pops the trunk and finds a bag of tools. Handing both me and Logan a screwdriver and pliers, he says, "Veronica, switch the plates from the Taurus with some other car—a California car would be a bonus but I don't think we'll get that lucky. Logan, once I'm in the new car and we know there's not an alarm, you're going to switch the Sebring's plates with another Arkansas car. Try to find another Chrysler if you can. Switching the plates might buy us a little more time, and I'm afraid we're going to need it."

I kneel down by the bumper and begin to struggle with the screws on the Taurus's plates as Dad retrieves his Slim-Jim and starts sliding it down into the driver's side window of the Sebring's door. A few passes with the slender metal device, and he's popped the locks. I hold my breath, expecting a raucous alarm despite Dad's assurances. Dad snorts. "Chrysler. The easiest car to steal in America. No wonder Detroit's such a mess."

He's more confident than I am. I've seen him in action a million times when chasing a bail jumper, but this is insane.

Dad opens the trunk on the Chrysler. "Once you've got the plates done, I want you guys to put everything you can from our car's trunk into the back seat. Then take everything out of the Chrysler's trunk, even the spare, and put it into the Taurus's trunk. We're going to need the room."

"Wait...what's going in the trunk?" I ask.

"You and Logan." Logan and I exchange a glance. Dad raises his eyebrows. "And Echolls, don't pretend you're not thrilled to be alone with my daughter in the dark."

Logan blushes a deep red. Dad exhales a soft laugh at his expression and, popping the hood, gets to work on hot-wiring the car. Logan glances at me and mouths, "He knows?" and I nod, holding one finger to my lips. For once today, Logan keeps quiet.

While we're transferring everything between the two cars, Dad begins working in the engine compartment. I see him looking around carefully and then pulling at wiring, and I hope he knows what he's doing. Gauging the room in the trunk, I decide that a few obvious office machines, like the printer and the laminator, should go in the back with us to stay out of sight of curious eyes, and our backpacks and the blankets will go in the trunk as well to help cushion us while we're riding.

Getting back in the car, Dad sets the parking brake and puts the car in neutral. With a screwdriver inserted into the plastic covering on the steering column, he unlocks the wheel with a sharp thrust and then locates the solenoid in the starter assembly. He fumbles with wires, finally attaching two terminals with pliers, and the car turns over and starts running.

"I didn't know you knew how to hot-wire a car," I say, arranging boxes and suitcases in the new car's backseat to look as unobtrusive as possible. I put the police band radio under the front seat where Dad can reach it if he wants.

"Yeah." Dad is still fussing with wires under the steering wheel. He straightens up, and I see the exhaustion and stress on his face for just a moment before he resumes his mask of calm competence.

Logan says, "Seriously. You're like a master criminal."

"Do you know where the red suitcase is?" Dad asks. I point, and Dad finds the suitcase with our disguises and roots around inside it. "Logan, can you put the batteries into the new shaver for me while I do this?" Dad finally finds what he's looking for and holds it up.

"Oh no." I wince. "Not Aunt Mildred."

"Who's Aunt Mildred?" Logan asks, intent upon his assigned task with the electric shaver.

Dad shows him an extremely large bra form, a hefty girdle, a gray curly wig, and a flowered dress. "I am. You got that shaver ready?"

"Yeah," Logan says, a little stunned. "Uh, Mr. Mars, you know, we still have some cash sewn into the back seat of the Taurus."

"Right...hurry up and get that, will you? And while you're at it, do a final idiot check, make sure we got everything out of the old car, and then park it away from here, so they don't automatically associate it with this one when the owner discovers it's gone."

Logan nods and goes to work, ripping the seam in the back seat of the Taurus without finesse and pawing through the glove box and underneath the seats for anything we might have overlooked. He starts up the car and drives down into the garage.

Meanwhile, Dad strips down to his boxers and dons the fake breasts, girdle and dress. He sits in the Sebring passenger seat to use the mirror as he shaves his four-day-old beard.

"Dad, there's...there's probably DNA evidence going everywhere—" I say hesitantly as the shaver buzzes. I imagine his razor stubble carpeting the floor of the Sebring and some weenie CSI vacuuming it up and putting it under a microscope.

"It can't be helped. Veronica, can you find the makeup kit? I'm going to need you to do my face for me to save time. And grab the map so I can look at it while you work."

By the time I've come up with the makeup kit, Dad's finished shaving. I begin applying thick pancake makeup on his face, working as quickly as I can, and Dad peers closely at the map. I can almost see him trying out each possible route and then discarding it as he assesses the dangers. And then somehow while he's doing all this, he also begins talking—my dad, the multitasker.

He keeps his voice down, and I realize he sent Logan to move the car so he'd have a moment alone with me. "Veronica. Do you remember the Hanrahans, the couple that went on the lam with two million in bearer bonds? About three years ago—took me forever to track them down, and I only found them because I got lucky."

"Dad, no!" My hand grasping the makeup sponge begins to shake and I stop.

He pats my arm reassuringly, and I try to continue with his disguise. "Honey, it's the only way. We have to split up. You're going to have to explain it to Logan while you're in the trunk together. I'm going to try to get us through the roadblocks, and then—"

"I get it. I understand."

"It's going to be okay."

I don't know what to say. Nothing about this is all right.

Why the _hell _didn't I leave it alone when the 'Emission to Mars' video came out?

Dad sees how upset I am—I must look like a wreck, with my eyes filled with tears and dark circles underneath from lack of sleep...stupid brunette hair and bangs and a little girl's glittery T-shirt. Caressing my cheek, he whispers, "Veronica, honey...always remember that I love you. We're all going to be okay. I'm going to get us through this." I nod and finish putting rouge on Dad's cheeks, finally handing him the lipstick to put on himself.

He adjusts the gray wig and applies the lipstick, frowning a little. "I don't have time to shave my legs and arms or put on nylons. But I'll be all right as long as I don't have to get out of the car." Dad pulls on a pair of low-heeled shoes, in a very unfeminine manner with widespread legs and a knee propped up on the other.

It used to make me giggle when he dressed up as 'Aunt Mildred'. But now, I'm just hoping the ruse will work.

Logan walks back up. He looks at Dad and cringes. "Sorry, Mr. Mars, but you are a truly ugly woman." Motioning with his thumb, he adds, "The car's all squared away."

Dad checks his watch. "We've been here too long already. 12:30—we've got about four and a half hours before somebody might report this car stolen after they get out of work, if we're lucky. We've got to get moving."

"Dad! Your watch," I exclaim.

"Damn it." He takes off his heavy gold watch, stowing it in a ladies handbag that's part of the disguise, and pulls the long frilly sleeves of his dress down to his wrists. Fumbling in the handbag, he comes up with a set of nonprescription glasses, a beaded necklace, clip-on earrings, and a matched set of wedding and engagement rings to complete his outfit. Dad tugs at the wig, giving me a quizzical look, and I nod that he looks fine.

Logan's right. Dad is now a very unattractive woman in her seventies, a little overweight and not very stylish. The flowery dress has a high collar that hides his Adam's apple. Aunt Mildred has snared several bail jumpers over the years. Dad's even learned to knit, although his large hands give him away when you get up close.

Dad says, "Let's go. In the trunk. Logan first."

After dropping the Taurus's car keys into Dad's outstretched hand, Logan gingerly climbs in and lies down. Without prompting, I follow him, lying on my side, my back to his front. Dad tosses in a bottle of water. There's a last glimpse of Dad in his ridiculous getup, and then the trunk lid closes and everything is dark. We hear the car door close with a loud thunk, and then the car revs and begins moving.


	12. Chapter 12: Perspiration

**TITLE:** Perspiration (12/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 4,124 **  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's BE at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

_Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

_When Keith leaves on a mysterious errand, Logan and Veronica comfort each other, talking about some of their mistakes and misunderstandings. Keith returns, reeking of scotch, with newspapers and tabloids, and they search for any mention of themselves. But they've been pushed off the front page by the escapades of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, and the only mention is a small article about Logan in the 'Weekly World News', a trashy tabloid. Later that night, Logan and Veronica find each in the motel bathroom and reunite, in an episode fraught with tentativeness and memories of old times, bad and good._

_Keith privately tells Veronica he knows about the bathroom encounter, and is surprisingly calm—on the surface. He tells Logan and Veronica that he feels that they haven't been cautious enough, and they will not only have to work harder on their disguises, but he is also purchasing weapons for all three of them. They split up, and when Keith and Veronica go to pick up Logan, they see him being arrested, while an elderly woman is being treated by paramedics._

_Keith and Veronica mount a daring rescue of Logan. With Veronica driving, they flee the scene. They successfully manage to trick the police into thinking they're heading east on the highway, but instead backtrack__ to a parking garage not far from where Logan was arrested. They steal a new car, Keith dresses as a woman, and Logan and Veronica hide in the trunk so they can get through the police roadblocks._  


* * *

The car descends down the steep ramps of the parking garage, a short straightaway and then a sharp turn to the right over and over again. Logan and I get tossed side-to-side twelve times, twice for each level. We stop, engine noises purring unfamiliarly right below our ears, and I picture Dad feeding dollar bills into the automatic machine.

We hear a loud metallic _ka-chunk _as the barrier arm lifts, and a few seconds later the car proceeds, turning right into traffic.

"I can't believe that getup on your dad," Logan whispers in my ear.

"It's worked pretty well in the past."

"Yeah, as long as he doesn't enter any beauty contests. ...What were you and your dad talking about while you were doing his makeup? You seemed upset."

"I'm not upset," I say. But it's not true. He can't see my face, and that's just about all that's keeping me from bursting into tears. I've never felt so exhausted before. I snuggle against him. "Hold me tight, okay?"

"Of course." His arms encircle me strongly. "Did he see us last night?"

"I guess. I think he thought he was dreaming, but then when I woke up and he looked at me...I hate lying to him, you know?" I remember the morning after I had sex with Duncan for the first time, I'd thought that Dad could see it on my face. "Dad was worried we were going to run off together and leave him."

Logan sighs. Sometimes the contrast between our respective fathers is a gaping chasm. "Your dad is really badass, Veronica. What happened back at the Walmart? I was in the backseat of the squad car thinking it was all over, and then all of a sudden your dad was yanking open the door and pulling me out."

"Dad went over to the Walmart on foot and waited for the paramedics to leave. When Dad cued me, I made a diversion by firing one of the guns and screaming. Then when the policeman came to check it out, I drove over to the Walmart and picked you guys up. We had recognized the model of police car, and Dad knew just where the emergency release lever is for the back doors."

"Holy shit. Your dad could've gotten killed. _You_ could've gotten killed. Jesus Christ, Veronica. Fucking badass." Logan sounds like he's in church, worshipping Dad: The Church of the Latter-day Badass...Saint Keith, the patron saint of weaponry and car chases. Logan strokes my hair, his lips right by my ear, and whispers, "Thank you. I don't know why your dad rescued me but...jesus, Veronica, thank you so much."

"I think he decided that you'd do just about anything to save my life if necessary, and that makes you okay in his eyes. Something about you being willing to go to jail to beat up Mercer and Moe, I guess."

The car throttles down, engine noise decreasing as the vehicle slows, and Logan and I roll toward the front. Logan braces his leg against the wheel well and grasps me tightly to stop our motion. A red light, I assume. I hope. We stay silent until the car starts up again, a smooth acceleration that soothes us.

Logan sounds bewildered. "Your dad really didn't mind that we were...you know, hanging out last night?"

"All he said was that he's really worried I'm going to get pregnant. That it would be a disaster for us. And he's completely right. We knew that. We were careful, and we will be careful."

"Yeah."

I have to tell him. I have to explain what's going to happen next, but I don't want to. I just want him to hold me tight and pretend that nothing's wrong.

I can't hold back a deep sigh as I begin. "Logan, Dad told me that we're going to have to split up once we get through the roadblocks."

His grip on me tightens and I hear his breathing speed up in my ear. "Split up?"

"There was a man and his wife that Dad tracked a few years ago, the Hanrahans. Huge bounty on them, because they stole two million in bearer bonds and disappeared without a trace. Dad finally caught up with them, mostly because he got lucky. He always said it was the most ingenious disappearing act he'd ever seen."

Logan begins tracing circles on my abdomen as I talk. It feels nice to be so comfortable with him again, but knowing that I'll be saying goodbye to him soon makes it all bittersweet.

"They split up right away and used Greyhound buses. They paid cash and bought tickets for big cities, Harry went toward Chicago, and Lisa went toward Miami. But they never went all the way to their destination. They'd either exit the bus at a hub or just never get back on at a rest stop. The bus drivers don't care if you leave. All they do is count heads and make sure no one extra gets on board. So when Harry got to, say, Kansas City, he'd buy a new ticket to Dallas, then get off somewhere else and do it again."

"That is pretty smart. There's no record of where you get off?"

"Right. As long as you don't have checked bags, no one pays attention. Dad estimated they changed routes about twenty times each before they ended up in Caribou, Maine—just about as far north as you can get without crossing over the border. Then they tried to get into Canada by hiking in with some tour guide, and that's how Dad caught up with them. He said he'd never have found them if they'd just stayed under the radar in Maine."

"I'm glad your dad's not tracking us."

I laugh. "I never thought of that."

"Pass me that water," he answers.

I fumble around and find it where it's rolled into a corner. "Not too much...it's got to last a while." I feel him nodding. He drinks, and then I take a few sips as well.

The car veers right suddenly. It's disconcerting not to be able to see where we're going, and our bodies are taking a beating as we bump against the other items we'd had to put in the trunk with us. The heat in here is intense already after just a few minutes. The Arkansas sun was shining brightly this morning and the forecast had called for a high of 92°. The carpeted floor of the trunk feels like a heated electric blanket against our skin.

"It's fucking hot," Logan says, reading my mind.

"We could always get naked," I tease.

"Yeah, right. No thanks, I want to keep on Mildred's good side."

"Yeah, well, Mildred wanted me to go over with you how it's going to work when we split up. He might not have a lot of time to explain things to you." I teach Logan everything I know about traveling on Greyhound: using cash along with a fake ID to buy a ticket, the way that the routes are structured in a hub system, how not to attract attention. He listens carefully, trying to absorb it all.

He asks tentatively, "What about the guns your dad just bought? Do we ditch them?"

"I don't think there are metal detectors on Greyhound. It's all pretty loose. We can risk keeping a weapon in our backpacks, with the safety on of course. If you see security, you can always ditch a gun before you board. You'll have to scout it at every stop and be aware."

Logan sighs heavily. "Guns. Security checkpoints. I'm not looking forward to this."

"I know what you mean."

"You know that I don't want to split up, but I can see why your dad thinks it's a good idea," he concludes.

"I don't want to split up either."

I must have sounded morose, because he reaches for my chin, turning my face to his. "It's not fair. I just got you back," he whispers.

From up front, Dad yells loudly, "Checkpoint ahead. Quiet."

I can feel Logan's tension. "Fuck fuck fuck," he breathes.

The car slows, then stops, and then we hear a murmur of voices. Logan and I don't move a muscle.

We begin moving again, and Logan and I both exhale as one. His mouth seeks mine, and he kisses me.

"We did it," I whisper.

"Your dad did it," he says. "He really kicked ass today."

The car accelerates, veering left and throwing us sideways again, and I decide that we're on a highway now. I've lost track of direction completely, and I wonder where Dad's heading.

Logan asks me a few more questions about Greyhounds, and I answer them, realizing that he's truly scared about the next step. "You'll be okay," I reassure him.

"I'm worried about you, all alone."

"Hah. I'll probably be safer without you beating up everyone who looks at me wrong."

"Nice." He hugs me to him tightly and finds my hand in the dark, twining his fingers with mine. "I'm sorry I keep doing boneheaded things."

"Like performing CPR on an old lady to save her life? Way to play the hero card to get on Dad's good side."

He's silent for a moment. "It was terrible. I was watching her die, and I knew I could save her."

"I know. I'm proud of you. It's good what you did."

"No. I knew when I decided to do it that...well, that something was probably going to go wrong. But I remembered how disappointed in me you were about, you know, about Mexico, the fire." I stiffen in his embrace, and he keeps talking. "I've done so many stupid things, Veronica. I don't know if I'll ever manage to be a good person. Even when I do the right thing it's the wrong thing."

"Logan, it's not fair that you had to be in that situation this morning. But you did the right thing."

"Yeah." He doesn't sound convinced at all.

"You don't get to take all the blame for the predicament we're in, you know. _I'm _the one who stole the hard drive. _I'm _the one who ran into Benes Hall without backup, and threw myself at a rapist with only a unicorn for a weapon." It's an exaggeration—of course I'd had my taser that night, but now I'm feeling guilty about telling him to shut up earlier, when he'd been saving a woman's life. So I deflect...and it's true. When the hell have I ever thought about the consequences of my actions? They certainly never crossed my mind when I crawled through the doggy door in Pemberton Estates...and here we are, on the lam in Arkansas.

"A _unicorn_?"

We'd never been able to talk about Mercer and Moe. Neither of us was ever brave enough to bring it up when we'd reunited. They'd taken a plea deal, so there'd been no trial, thank god. So Logan never knew what that night had really been like. "I— I stabbed Mercer with a toy unicorn that night when he was trying to pull me out from under the bed. We were fighting—"

"I know. When I called Wallace, he told me you had a big cut on your face and you were really banged up. That's when...oh fuck, I think that's when I decided I was going to beat the living shit out of them. And Mercer was my fucking friend. God, Veronica."

"You called Wallace?" Ever since Logan told us about his probation, I'd been wondering just how that sequence of events had occurred...how he'd found out I'd been hurt. And, at the time, I'd been devastated that Logan didn't call. Even though I hadn't had the right to be upset about it.

"I— I didn't think I was allowed to call you."

I suck in a breath. We'd been so stupid.

Logan says, "You'd been telling me that you could handle yourself and I didn't want you to think I was telling you, 'I told you so.'"

"Damn it," I say. I feel completely wretched. I'd acted like a child the whole year, pushing away everyone who logically told me that I should be more careful.

"I'm so sorry, Veronica—"

On top of the day's stress, thinking about this is breaking me. My voice quivers. "No, you don't understand...my fault, the whole thing. I was an idiot. I was lucky I didn't get killed. You _should_ have said 'I told you so.'"

"Well, if you're so sure about that, okay then. _I told you so, Veronica._" He blows in my ear and tickles me. I gasp, and he says, "You saved that girl that night. You can't beat yourself up because you didn't have an army on call. You tried to get help. But the main thing is...I don't want to do this right now. I'm not going to see you again for...what do you think? How long are we going to split up?"

"I don't know," I reply, miserably.

"I don't want to think about everything we did wrong this last year. I just want to hold you and memorize the way you feel...to remember until I get to hold you again."

"What do you think it's going to be like?" I ask softly.

"What, the bus ride?"

"No, Chapel Hill. When we get there."

"I think we're going to find jobs and hang out together all the time. I'm going to get really good at sneaking into your bedroom. We'll fight about who gets the remote and who has to do the dishes. Your dad's going to decide he likes me."

"He already does."

"Maybe. We're going to have really quiet lives. No investigating, no paparazzi."

"Really boring," I agree. "Just the way it should be. Crazy Eights on the weekends for something special."

"Totally."

We lie quietly, and I wonder if he's picturing it the way I am, a small little house at the end of a cul-de-sac so that no one notices us, working hard, but surviving. Getting old together, and trying to be happy. The constant hum of the road beneath us is soothing, and I close my eyes to picture the future more clearly.

"It's really hot," I murmur. Sweat is dripping from my forehead into my eyes, and my shirt is soaked with perspiration. My head aches from the heat.

"Yeah."

"It's _too_ hot. I think I'm going to take my shirt off," I reply. I know it's ridiculous, but I'm having a hard time seeing why I shouldn't. It's so goddamn hot in the trunk. "What do you think?"

"Thought you'd never ask... Of course I'll fool around with you, baby," he teases.

"No, silly. I'm not really going to do it. But we're going to pass out if we don't cool off."

"I don't think I could be anything _other _than hot and bothered around you, you know."

I elbow him a little harder than necessary and pull my damp shirt away from my skin, wriggling slightly in a futile attempt to try to get a little cooler.

Logan groans. "Stop."

"What? What's the matter?"

He pushes me away a fraction of an inch, all the space that the trunk allows. "Friction...in kind of a critical area. Jesus Christ. This is like my worst nightmare—you're in my arms and I can't do anything about it."

Tartly, I respond, "Just keep reminding yourself of that last part—not doing anything. Imagine Aunt Mildred popping the trunk and discovering us _in flagrante_. If she catches us playing hide the pickle back here, she's gonna pull a knitting needle out of that giant purse and stick it where the sun don't shine. Oh my _god_, it's hot."

"Well, at least it's dark, you libidinous hussy, so I don't have to see how beautiful you are, all sweaty and warm for my form."

I giggle loudly. "Hussy." It all seems incredibly funny all of a sudden, and I can't stop laughing.

"Veronica?"

I'm dizzy from laughing, giddily imagining Aunt Mildred giving us a talking-to about the dangers of sex on the lam. "Better hide that pickle, Logan!"

"Veronica?"

"Logan?" I laugh hysterically.

"Veronica! I think there's not enough air back here."

"What?" I feel him rooting around in the trunk, feeling for our backpacks in the dark.

"Veronica, try to drink a little water while I call your dad."

I fumble for the bottle, Logan's concern penetrating my lightheadedness. Buut I'm overwhelmed by dizziness when the car sways slightly, and I have to stop moving. "I don't feel so good," I moan, with a little hiccup.

"C'mon, pick up," Logan mutters.

_Pick up, pick up, pick up. Dad never picks up. Not on the roof. Not with Moe. Where is Dad? Daddy, pick up. Silly Daddy. _"Pick up, pick up, pick up," I echo.

I hear Dad's voice faintly through the earpiece. "What's up?"

"There's no air back here. It's really hot. We have to stop. Soon...Veronica can't stop laughing."

"I can too stop laughing," I protest, with a little giggle. "Silly Daddy. Why won't he ever pick up?"

Logan says tensely, "No, I don't know where the water bottle is. It's rolled away and we can't find it. I'll keep looking for it...yeah, I'm okay for now...Okay." He drops the phone and puts his hand on my forehead. "You're very warm."

"Warm for your form," I say, and start giggling again.

"Jesus Christ! Take steady breaths and try not to laugh, Veronica. I don't want to have to save two lives today."

We feel the car slow down, and we turn right, then left, then finally a sudden braking and two quick turns in a row that make my head start spinning. "Oh god, I'm going to throw up." Logan squeezes my hand. I remember: we're splitting up. I don't want to split up. I feel completely miserable.

The trunk lid is popped before we've even completely stopped. The fresh air is unbelievable; I breathe in, gasping. Dad's face, made up as Aunt Mildred, looms over us. "We're in a park. Weekday, kids are in school...I think it's safe." He reaches in and helps me scramble over the edge of the trunk. I sit on the bumper and gulp in fresh air.

Logan asks, "Is there any more water?"

Dad shakes his head. "I didn't want to stop for anything."

"Right. But her forehead feels warm."

Dad frowns and puts the back of his hand on my brow. "Soak a T-shirt or something in some of the water and put it on her head. I think she's got heat stroke." He pats my hand. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. I'm fine. This is embarrassing," I protest. Logan puts a folded-up damp T-shirt on my forehead and I'm too weak to argue. He pushes the water bottle, two-thirds empty, into my hand. I take a couple shaky sips and try to pass it to him, but he shakes his head.

"Finish it, Veronica." To my dad, Logan says, "You said this was a park? Maybe there are drinking fountains."

"We passed a ball field." Dad points down the road.

"I'll walk over there and get some more water. I need some too." He takes the empty bottle from me and walks away.

Dad disappears for a moment. I twist and see him rooting in the glove compartment. He returns and begins fanning my face with some papers. "I'm so sorry about the heat in there, honey."

The breeze from his fanning feels better than I'd like to admit. "It couldn't be helped," I reply. "How long have we been driving?"

"About forty-five minutes."

"How much longer?"

"Maybe an hour. I think you better ride up front now. And now that we're out of El Dorado, I can put the back seat down a little so Logan will get some air into the trunk. I'll crank the AC and we'll keep talking, make sure he's okay. I'd put him on the floor again, but I'm afraid someone will see us moving boxes around if we stay here too long."

"I don't know, Dad. It's pretty hot back there. Logan's okay for now, but..."

Dad stops fanning and assesses me again, holding the back of his hand against my brow. "All right. We'll put Logan between the seats. Someone can be on lookout while we repack the car."

"There's no one around. We'll be all right if we're careful and quick about it. Where are we headed exactly?"

Dad starts fussing with his girdle. "Hate this thing...how do women do it? Oh...if everything goes okay, Shreveport. I'm going to put you on a bus first, then Logan, and me last. I'll stop somewhere and ship all our belongings to Chapel Hill before I dump the car."

"We're still going to Chapel Hill?"

"Yeah, I still think it's a good choice. I'll go straight there and start looking for a place to live while I'm waiting for you guys to join me."

"Someplace nice, right?"

"Someplace nice and safe, Veronica. We're all going to be okay."

I brush a few tears out of my eyes. Suddenly, I feel completely exhausted, but I know I've got to keep going. "What are you going to do about Logan? They've seen what he looks like now. He's got to change the way he looks."

"I know, and I've got an idea about that. My first priority is to make sure _you're_ safe, but I promise you, Logan will be okay too."

Suddenly I'm paralyzed with fear, as I realize that Dad might very well be sacrificing himself in order to get me and Logan out of harm's way. I nod, but there's nothing okay with this plan at all if Dad doesn't survive.

I'm so tired...beyond tired. I'm a shadow, a wisp, wrung-out and spineless. All my fault, all of this. I want a do-over, a rewrite of the whole last year so that we could be anywhere but here.

Logan jogs back, a full water bottle in hand. I watch him hurry towards us, the concern evident on his face, and I wonder why I've always been so hard on him, and not nearly hard enough on myself. He frowns as he looks at me, taking the T-shirt from me and wetting it again before replacing it on my forehead. Pushing the bottle into my hands, he says, "You're still really flushed. Drink it slowly. Little sips, Veronica. I had plenty at the fountain and we can get more, so drink it all."

Logan takes my wrist and to my surprise starts monitoring my pulse. More of his first-aid training, I assume. I've never really given him credit for anything, I realize. Why? How many people would do anything but run if they were caught in a fire? One in a million? He'd been sleepy and drunk that day, maybe even drugged by Mercer. My anger about his failure to help down in Mexico had simmered in my consciousness for months—_typical Logan_, I remember thinking self-righteously.

And Madison...she'd thrown herself at him when he was at his lowest and again probably too drunk to even protest. He'd sworn to me that it didn't mean anything, but all I could do was obsess about it. I resolve that if we ever get somewhere safe, I'm going to try to give him the benefit of the doubt, like he deserves.

I watch Logan's face. His lips move as he calculates my heart rate. "Her pulse is still really fast," Logan says to Dad. He asks me, "Do you still feel like you're going to throw up?"

I shake my head. "No. I feel better. I swear."

Dad looks at Logan with concern. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Veronica explained to you what we're going to do? Splitting up and taking Greyhound? You understand how it works?"

"Yeah, I understand. But I'm not too happy about leaving her alone. Especially if she doesn't feel good."

"It can't be helped. They're going to be looking for us together—this is the only way."

I chime in, "He's right, Logan. I hate it, but we have to do this."

Logan sits on one side of me on the bumper and puts his arm around me. He doesn't even pretend for Dad's benefit and just surrounds me with his love and concern. Dad, in his ridiculous getup, takes the other side, and I wonder if, after today, I'll ever get to be with the two men I love most in the world again.


	13. Chapter 13: Peregrination

**TITLE:** Peregrination (13/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 6,366**  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's BE at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

_Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

_When Keith leaves on a mysterious errand, Logan and Veronica comfort each other, talking about some of their mistakes and misunderstandings. Keith returns, reeking of scotch, with newspapers and tabloids, and they search for any mention of themselves. But they've been pushed off the front page by the escapades of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, and the only mention is a small article about Logan in the 'Weekly World News', a trashy tabloid. Later that night, Logan and Veronica find each in the motel bathroom and reunite, in an episode fraught with tentativeness and memories of old times, bad and good._

_Keith privately tells Veronica he knows about the bathroom encounter, and is surprisingly calm—on the surface. He tells Logan and Veronica that he feels that they haven't been cautious enough, and they will not only have to work harder on their disguises, but he is also purchasing weapons for all three of them. They split up, and when Keith and Veronica go to pick up Logan, they see him being arrested, while an elderly woman is being treated by paramedics._

_Keith and Veronica mount a daring rescue of Logan. With Veronica driving, they flee the scene. They successfully manage to trick the police into thinking they're heading east on the highway, but instead backtrack__ to a parking garage not far from where Logan was arrested. They steal a new car, Keith dresses as a woman, and Logan and Veronica hide in the trunk so they can get through the police roadblocks. In the trunk, Veronica explains to Logan that they'll be splitting up, each of them taking zigzagging routes via Greyhound, hoping to meet up in a few days in Chapel Hill, NC. The heat builds up quickly in the car, and they're forced to stop when Veronica begins showing symptoms of heat stroke.  
_

* * *

A sharp poke in my ribs interrupts my dozing. "Louann...rest stop. Do you want to stretch your legs?"

I open my gritted, aching eyes and smile at the young woman next to me. "You bet. I tell you what, my butt feels like a twenty-pound ham on Christmas mornin'."

_Blend in. Hide in plain sight. Be careful, and always be watching. Stay alive. _Dad's last instructions to me before he left me at the Greyhound bus terminal in Shreveport, Louisiana. So I was Louann, Southern belle, on the way to visit my great-aunt in Tulsa. My seat mate, Charlene, was only going as far as Mena, Arkansas, which was perfect, because I was planning on missing my connection one stop later in Fort Smith and heading to Nashville instead. I didn't want anyone noting that I hadn't made it on board the bus I was supposed to be on.

I'd always found it easy to mimic the accents around me, so when I'd heard Charlene ordering her ticket in front of me at the bus terminal, I'd slipped into my new persona and introduced myself. I'd hoped the casual observer would assume I was one of two girls traveling together, not one-third of the desperate trio of criminals who'd eluded a police manhunt in El Dorado. The eyes of the security guard at the Shreveport terminal had slid right over me as I sat down next to Charlene in the molded plastic chairs.

Charlene was visiting a new boyfriend, so her conversation was focused on the course of true young love, exhaustingly examined and thoroughly parsed for meaning. "How about you?" she had asked after finally stopping for a breath. "Anybody special in your life?"

"I'm not really sure. Circumstances are a little...complicated right now." I'd berated myself. _Too close to the truth._ I'd hurried to fill in the details. "I'm just out of a relationship and, even though I like this one guy, I think I need to be alone for a little while."

_For instance, for just about the time of a zigzagging cross-country trip by Greyhound._

"I know exactly what you mean!" Charlene had exclaimed. She had then launched into a description of her entire romantic history, starting with her first kiss in seventh grade ("what a loser") and ending several weeks ago, when her current paramour, a freshman at Rich Mountain Community College, had accompanied her to her senior prom, including an overnight stay at the Shreveport Holiday Inn.

While Charlene had talked excitedly about Billy this, and Billy that, I'd kept one eye on CNN, playing on the television screens in the bus terminal. Closed captioning told me that a tri-state manhunt was underway for the three desperate criminals from California who'd been in El Dorado for some unknown nefarious purpose. I almost gasped when Vinnie's smug face popped up on the TV screen and delivered a sound bite 'live from Neptune, California'. I'd covered my slip with a cough, but Charlene had kept talking blithely about her upcoming visit to Billy and hadn't noticed.

Then the daughter of the elderly woman Logan had saved was interviewed. She insisted that her mother's life had been spared by his quick actions and declared that he was a hero. The newscaster closed his coverage with a snarky remark about a criminal with a heart of gold. As I silently fumed, his ditzy blonde colleague laughed and made a comment that closed captioning didn't catch.

It had been an hour of anxiety at the terminal while I waited for my bus. Before we'd split up, I'd acted as lookout in the park while Dad had shaved Logan's head. Then I'd used a Sharpie to draw ominous-looking 'tattoos' on his arms, neck, and skull. Logan Echolls, neo-Nazi skinhead. The new look worked well enough with the fatigues and green T-shirts that Logan had picked up at Walmart.

The new disguise didn't reassure me at all, but Dad had said that if Logan maintained an angry look on his face, while carefully keeping out of trouble, that people would avert their eyes and remember only the Germanic cross on the side of his neck rather than his features. Without my expertise in accents, Dad had advised him to stick to grunts and nods and to pick up appropriately right-wing reading material for his journey.

Logan was to head south at first on his zigzags, starting from Houston and avoiding Arkansas altogether, while I would go north, perhaps as far north as Cleveland, Ohio or New York City. Dad was going to backtrack all the way to Dallas and then head straight to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, with only a couple transfers along the way. As I was gazing at the route map in the Shreveport terminal, halfheartedly listening to Charlene's romantic woes, I had realized that we might even cross each other's paths on our zigzags due to the hub system used by Greyhound.

The bus slows down, and, accompanied by the _click-click _of his turn signal, the driver announces over the intercom, "Texarkana. Fifteen minute rest stop, y'all. I ain't comin' to find you, so be back on board on time." Almost before the bus has come to a complete stop, the driver jumps up and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. The moment his feet hit the pavement outside the bus, he flicks a lighter to a cigarette and begins inhaling great lungfuls of smoke. Several passengers, obviously other smokers, are right behind, and they form an impromptu smoking section beside the bus.

The rest of us file off the bus in a more orderly fashion. I keep my backpack pulled tightly against me, mindful of my large bundle of cash and a very lethal weapon wrapped in a couple T-shirts. As we pass the nicotine brigade, I'm assaulted by the cloud of blue smoke. Charlene whispers, "It's always like that on this route. The chain-smokers have a tough time between stops. At least there aren't any crying babies on this leg."

There's a general rush to the counter to procure junk food and soda. Charlene excuses herself. I tamp down a sudden craving for Doritos and select a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich, a bottle of water and an apple. I've got to take care of myself, eat as well as I can and take catnaps when it's safe. The next few days of bus ride after bus ride will take a toll.

After I've paid for my purchases, Charlene rejoins me. "Well, aren't you healthy? No wonder you have such a darlin' figure. Think I'm going to get one of them burritos." Charlene is bottle-blonde and full-figured, with soft pink flesh struggling to break free in the gap between her low-cut jeans and a midriff-exposing blouse. I follow her finger as she points out a display of cheesy tortilla-esque items swimming in grease that would only be called 'burritos' by a non-Mexican.

"Mmm," I manage, although my stomach heaves a little and my headache pounds. I'm still a little under the weather from my embarrassing bout with heat stroke. Normally I'd be all over those slimy delectables like amarillo on arroz con pollo.

"Want me to hold your sandwich while you go to the little girl's room?" she offers.

"No, that's okay. I'll stick it in my backpack." My accent slips a little, to my chagrin. "Thank _yew,_ though. Mighty nice'a you," I say, recovering. "See you back on the bus."

In the stall, I drop my head into my hands and allow myself the luxury of a thirty-second freak-out. I hate everything about this, the small talk with Charlene, the put-on accent, the ridiculous little girl outfit, and most of all being alone and worrying how Logan is coping due to his inexperience. Waves of fear wash over me when I think about Logan's face on every television screen in Arkansas. Our skinhead disguise for him seems feeble, but there wasn't time for anything better.

My eyes screwed shut, I tell myself over and over again that Dad had sworn that he was going to get us through this, and that I believe he can do it. I emerge and splash water on my face, smiling as easily as I can at the lady at the next basin.

A few minutes later, we're back on the bus as the sun dips below the horizon. It's a gorgeous sunset, nature having missed the memo on pathetic fallacy. Puffy clouds have gathered to reflect pink and purple hues above the tree line. Flat terrain, unbelievably uniform, as far as the eye can see. Tendrils of fire scorch the sky as the sun etches its departure. There's a last sliver of lava beyond the shadow-blackened trees, and then the sky inexorably deepens through slate blue to charcoal.

I realize that Charlene hasn't said anything for a few minutes, and sure enough, she's dropped off, her head nodding, in the seat beside me. The white dashed lines on the road rush to meet us, with a rhythmic hump as we pass over the regularly spaced road seams. There are no streetlights and no reflective chips embedded in the roadway, so all I see are the bus's headlights pushing the darkness away.

A few people have turned on overhead lights to read, and reflected in the bus windows are our ghosts, floating beside the bus. There is a gentle murmur of conversation overlaying the constant rumble of the bus's engine mixed with the whine of our tires, and I'm lulled to sleep.

•••

I'm chasing Logan in my dream, tracking his cellphone. The display on my phone beeps every time he moves, which isn't right. I know it isn't right. Still, I'm walking faster and faster, but the blip stays just ahead on-screen and I can't catch up, even when I start to run.

"Louann. You're having some dream there, all twitching and muttering!" Charlene comments. "We're almost to my stop, anyways."

"Huh?" I'm still in my dream, confused as to why I can't catch Logan and who the hell is Louann.

The bus slows and veers right. With a pneumatic hiss, the doors open and the driver calls, "Mena, Arkansas. Fifteen minute rest stop. Back on the bus by 10:25, folks." Again, he makes a beeline for the smokers' 'lounge' along with all the other nicotine fiends.

"Bye, sweetie. Good luck with that guy...you know, the complicated one."

I nod dumbly, still half-asleep. _Twitching and muttering...why don't I just wear a sign that says 'FUGITIVE'. Fuck. _I put my drawl on and keep my voice steady. "Nice to meetcha, Charlene. Have fun with Billy."

"I will." Charlene pats my shoulder and, hoisting her bag, walks down the aisle to exit the bus.

I think about what it must be like to have an uncomplicated boyfriend, one who doesn't require a GPS chip in his cellphone or an attorney on speed dial. When what you're going to wear to prom is your most pressing concern, and you don't know how it feels to lose your best friend or to wake up without your underwear or—

_Snap out of it, Veronica! You're not going to stay alive being morose. Stay alive..._

_'Blend in. Hide in plain sight. Be careful, and always be watching. Stay alive.'_

Besides, I've tried uncomplicated. Yeah, that worked out well. Piz is probably composing a death metal ode in my memory right this moment.

I follow the other zombies off the bus, all of us stiff from sitting, many of us drowsy-eyed and bleary. There's a twenty-four hour convenience store across the highway, and I watch as three young men, probably college kids, head over there. I dutifully use the restroom again and inspect the food choices, but nothing appeals more than the sandwich already residing in my backpack. I'm sore, my muscles aching from sitting all this time and my ribs bruised from the ride in the trunk. While everyone mills around in the roadside diner, I head outside, and go around the corner of the building. Setting my backpack on the ground, I do a few stretches, trying to get the blood moving in my body again.

I've just straightened up again when I hear a wolf's whistle. The three college boys are crossing the roadway, one of them carrying a suspiciously heavy paper bag. "Yeah, baby," one of them calls to me. He nudges one of his buddies.

_Great, I've attracted the attention of the local wildlife._

Hoisting my backpack onto my shoulder, I ignore them as I seethe inside. The gun clunks reassuringly in the bag as I move towards the bus. There's something about carrying a weapon that makes even teenage boys seem harmless, but still I'm hoping they're going to leave me alone.

I watch as one of the boys carefully engages the driver in conversation while the other two climb aboard the bus with their purchase and head to the back of the bus. I follow them and take the seat I'd been sitting in previously, about halfway down the aisle. Pulling out my sandwich, I begin eating it. People begin to board the bus as the appointed departure time approaches.

To my dismay, I hear whispering, and then the two boys move to the seat behind me, and when their partner in crime gets on board, he acknowledges his buddies and sits down in the seat vacated by Charlene. "Mind if we join you?" I have a moment when I can escape, but I hesitate, and all of a sudden the bus is thronged with passengers. The bus driver swings into his seat and starts up the bus again before I can make up my mind to move.

Behind me, one of the other boys chimes in, "You smell a lot better than the people in the back."

The other boy behind me pretends to cough. "Flexible." His companions bust a gut laughing.

I try to ignore them and finish my sandwich, crumpling the wrapper and stowing it in my bag. The bus is moving, and it's clearly too late to seek another seat without making a scene and attracting attention, but these boys are trouble.

The boy seated next to me, a tall kid with a bad complexion who looks like his only workout is hoisting a beer, keeps leering at me. Smiling sweetly, I say, "Um, I don't mind if you boys sit here. But I do have a totally ragin' case of the herpes. Sooo...look, don't touch, y'all." The 'y'all' feels like I'm putting it on a bit thick, but it passes without notice.

"Feisty!" the boy next to me exclaims as they all giggle.

I can't resist. "Honey, your name isn't Dick, by any chance? Or Chip?"

"No," he scoffs. "I'm Danny, that's Roger and Bob behind you." The two boys extend hands over the seatback, and I shake them. "So where you headed, beautiful?" Danny's eyes are glued on me; he's smitten. _Fuck._

"It's a secret," I purr. The last thing I need is to declare that I'm heading for somewhere and find out that these jerkoffs are going to the same place: they'll raise the alarm if I don't get on the bus when they do. "Where are you guys goin'?"

"Fort Smith," Danny says.

"Next stop, right?" I ask. Fort Smith, where I'm planning on ditching and catching a new route. This is going to be tricky—I can't let these guys see me get on the wrong bus. Danny looks at me, and I realize what he's waiting for. "Oh...I'm Louann. I'm headed to Tulsa to visit my Great-Aunt Sally. She's eighty-two and crazy as all get out."

"Awesome," Danny replies. "We just finished up the semester at Texas A&M in Texarkana. Me and Bob are sophomores, Roger's a junior."

"That so?"

Danny looks around cautiously and whispers, "We've got beer. You want one?"

I hope the darkness on the bus conceals my eye roll. These guys couldn't have been more obvious in their 'stealth' maneuvers if they were elephants wearing tutus in Times Square. "Well, shut my mouth, you bet I do. Aren't you guys sly, sneakin' beer onto the bus?"

Danny starts explaining a drinking game based on rock, paper, scissors. I logically point out that there are four of us, not two, but the boys override my objections and pass me a beer.

I nurse my beer, pretending to sip, but in reality letting the liquid slip back into the can. When Danny asks me to watch his beer while he uses the bus's restroom, I pour half my beer into his can and most of the rest into my water bottle. He slides back into the seat and takes his beer. "You only rent beer, you know," he says. Danny hefts his can with puzzlement. "Hey, I thought I was almost empty...oh, whatever." He takes a great swig of liquid. "Okay, next round...one, two, three."

I dutifully extend my open palm for 'paper'. The other three all choose 'scissors' and whoop. "Drink!" Bob exclaims, in a loud whisper. I pretend to swallow an appropriate amount of beer as the three boys giggle.

The lady in front of us turns around and asks us to be quiet. Danny's about to retort, and I elbow him strongly. I hiss, "Don't make a scene. Do you really want her to get the bus driver back here? He can put us off the bus for drinking." I have no idea if that's true, but the last thing I want is for every single passenger to look at my face as the bus driver escorts us off the bus. My fake accent slips in my urgency, but it passes unnoticed. I hope.

Bob whispers, "My mom would kill me if we got kicked off and she had to buy me a second ticket."

Roger adds, "We should cool it, man."

"Okay, okay," Danny replies, outnumbered. "We'll keep it down." He leans over the seat and says, "Sorry, ma'am. We didn't realize how loud we were being. We'll be quiet."

"See that you do." I hear an audible 'humph' as she savagely flips the pages of her magazine.

Danny grabs another beer can. Smothering the sound with his jacket, he carefully pops the pull tab. He passes it back to Roger and then opens two more for himself and Bob. He nods to me, and I shake my head. "Still workin' on my first one, sweetie. I'm a real lightweight," I whisper. "Thanks, though."

I realize that my thigh muscle is quivering nervously. Chugging a little of my 'beer', I push down hard with my heel to try to get my leg to stop trembling. I can't decide if these boys are a disaster or a great cover. Everyone's going to remember them, that's for sure, including the bus driver. But will they remember the face of the brunette girl they were hitting on?

Danny asks, a little too casually, "So you got a boyfriend back home?"

_You better fucking believe I got a boyfriend._"Sure do."

He sighs. "All the cute girls are taken." He launches into a story about a girl he'd fallen desperately in love with at Texas A&M. To my relief, the drinking game seems to be forgotten, but I start to wonder if I'm wearing a sign identifying me as Dear Abby. I try to nod in the right places during his tale of woe, although it's clear to me that the girl barely knew that Danny was alive. Uncharacteristically, I hold back from pointing out that he'd probably violated a few stalking ordinances, based on his account. Day One of Veronica Mars, the Forgiving Years. My newly turned leaf, along with a freshly minted halo, is intact.

In an attempt to talk about anything other than Danny's putative love life, I ask, "What's your major?"

"Criminal justice."

I throttle back a guffaw. If Danny only knew who he was talking to...

He presses me about myself, and I tell them I'm from a suburb of Shreveport, and I just finished my freshman year at Arizona State. Crossing my fingers, I hope Phoenix is far enough away that we don't have to play the who-do-you-know game. When asked about my major, I respond glibly, "Communication." If it was good enough for Kendall, it ought to satisfy these bozos.

The bus driver announces over the intercom, "Fort Smith, last stop. Everyone off. Change to the 112 at 12:30 for Kansas City. Check with the station agent for other destinations." The bus stops with a jerk, and people rise out of their seats and begin gathering their belongings.

I tense up. This is going to be tricky. Danny has been practically glued to me for the last hour, his thigh pressing against me even though I've scooted all the way over to the window. I've removed his wandering hand three times.

The boys are discussing a nearby bar that doesn't check ID as we progress up the aisle. Once in the bus terminal, I turn to them and say brightly, "Well, it was nice hangin' with you all. And thanks for the beverage."

Roger says, "We can wait with you until you make your connection. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you!"

"Damn straight," Danny agrees. "This terminal's not safe. It's freakin' midnight."

"You mean there's something more threatening to me than three drunken college boys with raging libidos?" I snark.

They're just drunk enough that my sarcasm goes over their head. "Come on, Louann. We're not going to abandon you now," Bob says.

_Great, just fucking great. Now what do I do?_ I look up at the screen listing departures. The bus I want to get on leaves at 3:15am, but the one headed to my supposed destination of Tulsa is the 112, leaving in half an hour. "Seriously, don't you boys want to hustle on over to that bar you were talkin' about?"

"Oh, we've still got a six," Danny notes, holding up the bag. "We're cool."

"Well, I guess I'm being protected whether I like it or not," I reply, holding back my sigh.

After fifteen more minutes of scintillating conversation, mostly involving trading email addresses (fake on my part), boarding is announced, and I get on the bus. I'm hopeful that the boys will leave now so I can dart back off the bus and stick to my plan, but they stay, jumping and motioning to me through the window, until the bus rumbles out of the station. The last thing I see is Danny pretending to moon me, and then blowing a kiss while the other boys laugh at him.

_So much for flying under the radar. I hope Logan's doing better than I am.  
_

There aren't as many passengers on this bus, and I have a double seat to myself. As soon as we're underway, I pull out my Greyhound timetable and scrutinize my possibilities. It looks like there's a southbound bus that I can catch if I get off at the first stop that will just barely get me back to Fort Smith before the Nashville bus leaves.

My shoulders are tight with tension, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I've got to be able to roll with the punches if I'm going to survive. I rack my brain going over what had happened since I got on the bus in Shreveport, and I decided that the only thing I'd really done wrong was a few stretches at the rest stop. But those boys might have glommed onto me anyways.

I've got an hour before the first stop. No sleeping allowed, I tell myself sternly. It's only a little out of my way, I rationalize.

But when we get to Fayetteville at 1:30am, the 'terminal' turns out to be a darkened liquor store with no sign of life, and I realize there's not going to be any way to get out of Fayetteville until the morning. Looking back on the timetable, I see minuscule print that says, "M-Sa 9:00am-5:00pm". The bus barely stops, slowing down enough to see that no one's getting on or off, and then takes off again. I check the next stop in the timetable, Rogers/Bentonville, and it's the same story, "M-Sa 6:30am-3:30pm".

Twenty minutes later, we pull into beautiful downtown Rogers/Bentonville—to call it a one-horse town would be an insult to the horse. The bus stops at a bleak Citgo truckstop just off the highway, all neon and twangy country music. I follow everyone off the bus and dutifully use the restroom. As I suspected, the ticket window for bus reservations is chained shut. Through the grating I see a sign, 'All tickets must be purchased before boarding.'

I climb back on the bus, and try to settle in for a nap. Joplin, Missouri, our next and final stop, looks to be a full-service terminal. And I have no clue where I'm headed from there. I imagine Logan on another bus, wary of talking to anyone who might have seen his photo in the paper, and afraid to fall asleep. The anxiety ramps up again with relentless images replaying from today, Logan in handcuffs and bent over the police car. If Dad hadn't done what he did...I still don't completely understand why Dad had such a radical change of heart about Logan. And I'm completely aware how lucky we've been, every step of the way. It could have gone very badly at any time.

I push away the disturbing thoughts and give up on my nap. By now Dad's probably on a bus himself and hurtling toward Chapel Hill, determined to start a new life for us while Logan and I ride around the country. Pulling out the timetable again, I try to plot my next journey.

•••

In Joplin, I splash some water on my face in the restroom and change my T-shirt and underwear, wrapping my dirty clothes in a paper towel and dumping them in the trash. I buy a ticket to Atlanta via St. Louis and Nashville, intending to ditch in Nashville as I'd previously planned. From Nashville, I can head towards Virginia and then south to Raleigh, and finally to Chapel Hill. The hubs are closer together on the east coast, and it will be easier to zigzag. That last leg will be the most nerve-wracking: I'll have to make sure I'm not followed so I don't lead anybody to Logan and Dad.

I have to wait two hours in the dingy Joplin terminal before the bus leaves, sharing it with several military personnel, a mom with two sleepy toddlers in tow, a man I suspect to be a recently paroled convict, and an assortment of tired and cranky people who want to be anywhere but Joplin, Missouri. A lone custodian mops the floor, ignoring all the passengers. The snack bar is closed and there's no food service except for vending machines. I buy a couple granola bars and a bag of peanuts, stuffing them in my backpack for later, and fill up my water bottle at the drinking fountain.

It's 4am and I'm completely wired, even without any caffeine. Feeling conspicuous and paranoid, I take up residence in a corner, pretending to listen to my iPod, but in reality watching everyone. I observe, along with everyone else, as a dark-haired young man, with a three-day beard, filthy clothes, and no baggage, paces relentlessly in the center of the terminal, talking to himself and listening to voices that only he can hear. I'm ridiculously grateful to him for being the center of everyone's attention.

As I get in line to board the bus at 5:20am, I notice a copy of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette discarded on a chair and snag it, stowing it in my bag. Boarding goes without a hitch—I still haven't seen any security precautions and certainly no metal detectors. The bus is full, and the seat beside me is taken by an elderly woman who has an odd odor about her. Perfumed talc, mustiness, and fried food, I decide. But she keeps to herself, barely nodding to me as she sits down. She opens up her Bible to a marked spot and begins reading, her lips moving slightly as she progresses.

I've forgotten about the adulterated Bible in my own bag. I don't pull it out, but it reassures me to remember the pictures of Mom and Dad, Backup, Wallace, Mac, even one of me and Logan in happier days, that are pasted under the endpages.

We have a little over six hours before the first transfer, in St. Louis. I feel myself crashing, and I decide that my overwhelming fatigue makes it worth the risk to really try to get some sleep. Exhaustion will lead to mistakes. I send a mental message to my seatmate to pray for my safety and lean my head against the window, falling asleep within seconds.

•••

I wake up about a half an hour from St. Louis. My seatmate has fallen asleep, snoring a little as she dozes. So I take the opportunity to pull out my purloined copy of the Arkansas newspaper. On page two, below the fold, there are photos of Logan, Dad, and myself, each about 2"x3", just big enough to make my blood run cold. They'd used my Hearst ID photo, when I'd had long curly blonde hair and no bangs. I'd worn a fair amount of makeup that day, knowing that I'd have to live with the photo for four years, so I look a little older in the photo than I appear now.

* * *

_**Prisoner Escape Frustrates El Dorado Police Department**_

_A daring prisoner escape has police searching for three people who are wanted in California on multiple felony charges. One man and a woman created a diversion yesterday with gunfire and then freed their male companion, who had just been arrested on the California charges, police said._

_Police on patrol were notified Tuesday mid-morning by a 911 call asking for assistance when an unidentified local woman, unrelated to the suspects, suffered an apparent heart attack. El Dorado Chief of Police William Pearson stated that when paramedics and the responding officer arrived, a man later identified as Logan Echolls of Neptune, California was performing CPR on the victim, who was eventually resuscitated by medical personnel and is now listed in stable condition at the Medical Center of South Arkansas. An alert bystander informed the officer of the man's identity and his wanted status. Officer Ronald Washington then took Echolls into custody and secured him in his police cruiser._

_As the officer took statements from witnesses, shots were heard from a neighboring building. While the officer investigated, Echolls' accomplices retrieved the suspect and drove away. The accomplices are presumed to be Keith Mars, a former sheriff from Balboa County, California and licensed private investigator, and his daughter, Veronica, also a private investigator. Witnesses indicated that the male suspect was impersonating an officer of the law to effect the escape._

_El Dorado and Arkansas State Police attempted to intercept the trio, setting up numerous roadblocks on all highways leaving El Dorado, but as of this morning the culprits were still at large and the investigation ongoing, said Chief Pearson. The chief added that, although there was no report of injuries at the scene, the use of gunfire to effect an escape indicated a reckless disregard for bystander safety._

_The suspects are wanted in California for burglary (V. Mars), spoliation of evidence and failure to appear (K. Mars), and felony battery and probation violation (Echolls). Veronica Mars is 19, blonde, 5'1", 100 pounds, Keith Mars is 45, balding, 5'8", 165, and Logan Echolls, son of the late Hollywood star, Aaron Echolls, is 19, light brown hair, 6'1" and 170 lbs. All three are residents of Neptune, California. They were last seen driving a grey Ford Taurus with a California license plate starting with 8B8. The suspects are believed to be armed and dangerous, and anyone seeing them or their vehicle is asked to call 870-555-TIPS._

* * *

_Way to bury the lead,_ I thought bitterly. _What about...Formerly Disgraced Son of Sleazy Action Star/Murderer Heroically Saves Woman's Life With No Concern for Himself?_ And that bit about reckless disregard...they made it sound like I was shooting kittens behind that building. I'm surprised that they didn't throw in some information about Lilly's murder and my confrontation with Aaron, but the tabloids will certainly dredge that up. I suppose it could be worse, but it's pretty damn bad. At least they're still looking for the Taurus and haven't made the connection to the Chrysler we stole from the parking garage.

In case anyone's watching, I read several more articles from the paper before folding it up and stowing it in my backpack again.

The driver announces, "Last stop, St. Louis. Change to bus number 4872 for Chicago and Minneapolis. 1651 for Kansas City. 669 for Nashville. 1138 for Memphis." Along with everyone else, I shoulder my backpack and shuffle down the aisle to the exit.

By now, I'm used to the bleakness of the bus stations and the wide variety of characters encountered there. But the difference is that St. Louis is a major hub and there are throngs of people milling about. It's good and bad: easier for me to hide in a crowd, but more people for me to worry about. So I scan the crowd, the way Dad taught me, a few seconds on each face, methodically checking each person on a mental grid.

And then I see him. The schizophrenic guy from the Joplin terminal, accompanied—no, manhandled—by a large man in a suit I've never seen before. The schizophrenic guy is shaking his head, talking a mile a minute and twitching as the other guy gestures toward me and my fellow passengers as we spill out of the Greyhound.

They're here for me.

I don't know who the large guy is, but I know he's trouble and I can't let him get close to me. Russian mafia? Private dick? It doesn't matter. He's muscled with a layer of fat, and he looks like he's been in more than a few fights. Close-cropped gray hair and a puffy face, and a cheap brown suit that isn't tailored well enough to hide the fact that he's packing a gun.

The announcer in the terminal says, "Now arriving at gate number five, bus number 1340 from Joplin, Missouri. Bus number 4810 departing from gate fifteen has been delayed; check the departure screens for updated information."

I can't sit in this terminal for two hours waiting for the Nashville bus. They haven't spotted me yet, but it's only a matter of time. Hanging back with the last of the passengers exiting the bus, I pull my hair out of the two ponytails I've been sporting and quickly draw my hair back into a bun. I extract a baseball cap and sunglasses from my bag and put them on. It's pathetic and futile as a disguise, but I'm hoping the schizophrenic guy will be confused.

My pursuers turn to their left, following the passengers who are collecting their baggage from under the bus. Clutching my backpack close to me, I slip into the crowd, moving fast in the opposite direction, jostling people as I go. There's a ticket counter twenty feet away and I hustle to get there.

When I get there, I'm second in line at the ticket counter. _Come on, come on, come on._ One hand stays in my backpack, and I flip the safety on the Glock pistol. My foot taps out a rhythm, and my shoulders ache with tension. I don't dare turn around to see where my pursuers are. Instead, I locate the two nearest exits and watch the departures screen. The next departure is bus number 4810, heading to Chicago, which was supposed to leave a few minutes before we arrived, but it's has been delayed ten minutes and is listed as 'NOW BOARDING' at gate fifteen. We were five minutes early, so I just might make it...if I run. And my pursuers won't have time to buy a ticket. I make sure I know exactly where gate fifteen is in relation to my current position. Just as the customer in front of me leaves the counter, the line for 4810 on the display starts flashing, and I assume that means the bus is about to depart.

The bored ticket agent looks at me. "How may I help you." It's not a question, and there's zero urgency. She's two hundred pounds of I-hate-this-fucking-job, topped by the surly expression of someone who deals with assholes all day long.

"4810 to Chicago, one adult please." I put three fifties and my fake ID on the counter.

The agent frowns at the clock. "Don't think you'll make it. And this would be a nonrefundable ticket."

"I'd like to try, if you don't mind." It's hell, but I keep from screaming at her. "Please hurry." I chance a look around. They've spotted me and they're moving towards me.

The agent types at her computer with excruciating slowness and shrugs. "Your money. Have a nice day." She pushes the ticket and my change toward me; I grab it and run for the gate. My pursuer lets go of the schizophrenic man and chases me at full speed.

I make it to the gate just as they're closing the baggage compartment under the bus. "Hold it, please!" I call out. Everyone's looking at me, but I don't have a choice. I flash the ticket, panting hard and looking over my shoulder, and I'm allowed to proceed onto the bus just before the door hisses closed.

The large man's gaze meets mine through the bus window. He now knows exactly where I'm going and when I'm going to get there. A smile spreads over his face, and he waves bye-bye to me.


	14. Chapter 14: Pursuit

**TITLE:** Pursuit (14/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,674**  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Keith loses the election. Gory breaks into Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, breaking the fish sculpture and peeing on Logan's bed, and Keith finds out that Vinnie and the DA plan to pursue felony charges against him. They realize that any investigation will cause Veronica's BE at the Kane mansion to come to light as well. Veronica, Logan, and Keith decide to flee Neptune, and they lay numerous fake trails and drive to the east in a slightly illegal car provided by Weevil._

_Once they're on the road, the dismal reality of life on the run begins to sink in. Logan reveals that he's on probation for beating up Mercer and Moe in the Neptune jail. Keith, feeling Logan is endangering them, wants Logan to go on his own, but Veronica chases after Logan, and Keith reluctantly decides to keep going as a team. Logan tells them about his preliminary hearing and his plea agreement, and Veronica realizes that the party in Aspen when Logan slept with Madison was right before Logan's hearing. They reach out to Cliff back in Neptune and find out that Vinnie has filed charges for Keith's crimes, and, more ominously, Gory has filed a complaint on Logan for having assaulted him in the food court. Logan's probation has officially been revoked, and both he and Keith are listed on the NCIC computer system used by law enforcement._

_When Keith leaves on a mysterious errand, Logan and Veronica comfort each other, talking about some of their mistakes and misunderstandings. Keith returns, reeking of scotch, with newspapers and tabloids, and they search for any mention of themselves. But they've been pushed off the front page by the escapades of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, and the only mention is a small article about Logan in the 'Weekly World News', a trashy tabloid. Later that night, Logan and Veronica find each in the motel bathroom and reunite, in an episode fraught with tentativeness and memories of old times, bad and good._

_Keith privately tells Veronica he knows about the bathroom encounter, and is surprisingly calm—on the surface. He tells Logan and Veronica that he feels that they haven't been cautious enough, and they will not only have to work harder on their disguises, but he is also purchasing weapons for all three of them. They split up, and when Keith and Veronica go to pick up Logan, they see him being arrested, while an elderly woman is being treated by paramedics._

_Keith and Veronica mount a daring rescue of Logan. With Veronica driving, they flee the scene. They successfully manage to trick the police into thinking they're heading east on the highway, but instead backtrack__ to a parking garage not far from where Logan was arrested. They steal a new car, Keith dresses as a woman, and Logan and Veronica hide in the trunk so they can get through the police roadblocks._

___In the trunk, Veronica explains to Logan that they'll be splitting up, each of them taking zigzagging routes via Greyhound, hoping to meet up in a few days in Chapel Hill, NC. The heat builds up quickly in the car, and they're forced to stop when Veronica begins showing symptoms of heat stroke._

_On the Greyhound, Veronica hides in plain sight by teaming up with another young woman. But then she is noticed by three horny college boys, who attach themselves to her and prevent her from ditching at the stop she intends. Forced to go out of her way, she spends a few hours in the Joplin, MO, bus terminal before catching a bus for Atlanta._

_In the layover at St. Louis, she recognizes a schizophrenic man she'd seen in Joplin, accompanied by an ominous-looking man in a brown suit. Just before the man catches up to her, she jumps on another bus bound for Chicago, even as she realizes that her pursuer will know exactly where she's going and when she'll get there.  
_

* * *

I keep my eyes averted from the other passengers and head for the only vacant seat on the bus, on the three-passenger bench seat that extends across the back row. It's the least desirable seat on the bus, with non-reclining seats and unfortunate proximity to the restroom. There's not really enough room for me to sit, with two surly passengers already sprawled out on the seat, but it's my only choice. The guy in front of me, a stoner dude with stringy hair wearing an AC/DC T-shirt, begrudgingly moves a little so I can sit down in the middle. A very large black woman with a magazine sighs before moving infinitesimally closer to the window and pulling her bag closer to her feet. "Sorry," I mutter. "Almost missed the bus...good thing it was running late." Stringy-hair guy rolls his eyes and the lady completely ignores me.

I settle in as best as I can, my backpack tucked under my calves and my arms pulled in tight to avoid pissing off my prickly neighbors. The entrance to the fragrant restroom is right by my row. This is a disaster: everyone using the john will see my face. My heart shows no sign of slowing down, with the adrenaline rush of blood thumping in my ears. I start pacing my breathing and finally my body calms down enough so I can think.

Trying to figure out what the hell just happened, I replay what I remember from the Joplin bus terminal. If that schizophrenic guy was acting, he's the best actor I've ever seen. And there was no reason for him to continue the act in the St. Louis terminal, so I decide that he's for real.

My instinct is that Brown Suit Guy is a P.I., not Russian mob, because he was alone, and, while he looked strong and capable, he didn't have the requisite scars and tattoos of a gulag refugee. And his suit was too cheap. There's a reason P.I.s are called cheap gumshoes—the job usually doesn't come with a 401K, and the income stream is, to put it mildly, highly variable. Just because he's a P.I. doesn't mean he wasn't hired by Gory, but the likelihood is that he's a private dick chasing a large payday for capturing a fugitive.

The final clue that Brown Suit Guy is a P.I. is the fact that the schizophrenic guy is still alive. Russian mobsters tend to dispose of witnesses without thinking too much about it. But a P.I. couldn't leave the schizophrenic guy in Joplin, where another enterprising bounty hunter might have stumbled upon him. So he brought him along, and that way the schizophrenic guy could help spot me as well. And it was a break for me, because then I had a warning. Otherwise, I'd be in his custody right now.

Thin evidence, but the alternative is harder to contemplate. It reassures me to come to this conclusion—I know how P.I.s think. And I know Brown Suit Guy won't do anything that would cause collateral damage. I'm betting that he won't have any backup, either, not wanting to share the bounty and overestimating his ability to deal with 'just a girl'.

My best guess is that Brown Suit Guy followed a hunch and checked out bus stations outside of El Dorado, gradually expanding his search. If he was knowledgeable about Greyhound, he would have known to concentrate on the hub stations where passengers almost always have to make transfers. He got lucky that he found a station that I'd just been in, with a witness who remembered a petite girl traveling solo who was about the right age. We left Joplin at 5:30am. The bus is slower than a car. So he could have driven like hell and beaten us to St. Louis, bringing the witness along to help identify me.

My main advantage is that he doesn't know just how tough and determined I am. It takes a second to penetrate my panic, but I realize that although I'm scared I'm not paralyzed. I'm going to beat this guy. Somehow. I haven't figured out how, yet, but I will.

What does worry me, though, is that now someone knows we've split up, and the logical assumption is that all of us are on buses. Dad and Logan are in more danger than ever.

I've got an unused burn phone in my backpack that I'm not supposed to use until I get close to Raleigh. Weighing all the pros and cons, I decide that it's worth the risk to warn them by text. I'm a little worried that nervousness will make Logan more vulnerable rather than less, but at the very least he can try to stay on whatever bus he's on as much as possible, staying out of terminals where a friend of Brown Suit Guy might be looking for him. So I send two duplicate text messages to the phone numbers Dad had insisted we memorize rather than store in the phones.

_»omg ran into marlowe im ok eta now l8er keep on gh & stay cool in the heat c u soon xoxo anastasia«_

We'd set up code words to make sure that each of us hasn't been caught and compromised. 'Princess' is the code to let the others know that the caller isn't in custody. I'm hoping that using 'Anastasia' will cue them as to my authenticity and still preserve the word for use later when I'll need it. 'Marlowe'—well, Dad will know right away that I mean 'P.I.', and I'll punch Logan when I see him if he can't figure it out after all the times we watched 'The Big Sleep' together. 'gh' is all I can think of to tell them to stay on the bus and out of the terminals as much as possible.

The cell phone is unusable to me now, and I need to get rid of the data on it before I dump it. And I've got to be quick about it, in case this P.I. is smarter than I think and apprehends me with the phone still on me, with cell phone numbers in the call log that will lead him right to Dad and Logan. But it's too cramped in this seat, with the stoner dude and the bitchy fat lady breathing down my neck—too easy for them to see what I'm doing. I'm pretty sure stoner dude was trying to read my screen as I was texting, so I stow the phone until I can find a more private situation.

A few minutes later, the bus starts to slow down. I check my watch: 1:33pm. Over the intercom I hear, "Springfield." The stop is little more than a parking lot. Three passengers get up to disembark, and I hustle to grab one of their seats, managing to snag a window seat just before the stoner dude, who'd had the same idea. He gives me a dirty look and takes the aisle.

As the bus makes a wide turn and merges back into traffic, I see a black Crown Victoria with its blinker on, waiting for us. Brown Suit Guy, I assume. The Crown Vic is more confirmation that it's a P.I., probably an ex-cop who never quite got used to a civilian car.

The stoner dude reclines his seat to maximum before crossing his arms and shutting his eyes, pointedly ignoring me. I guess I'm not his type. And thank you, God, for that small favor.

Still, I turn my body and lean my head against the window so there's no way he can see the screen on my phone. I erase the call log and then send thirty bullshit texts ("c u l8ter" and "where u at", etc.) to random California and New York numbers to overwrite all the SMS slots on the SIM card. This will effectively erase my text from the SIM card's limited memory. It's the best I can do on the run.

"Huh. Sure got a lot to say," the stoner dude comments, watching me from half-lidded eyes. "Thumbs getting tired, sweetheart?"

"Friends back home," I reply. _Fuck._ I can't resist adding, "Kind of nosey, aren't you?"

"You know, you're a real bitch."

_'You know what you should do with your sudden popularity? Just lay back and enjoy it.'_ It's universal: in high school, in a college food court, on a bus...I'm a bitch wherever I go. I should shake it off, but I'm tired and cranky, and this guy is pissing me off. "Yeah, that's what they keep telling me. You know what? I figure, I might as well _own _it. Know what I mean? What's your excuse?"

He scoffs and turns away, closing his eyes again.

_Yep, making friends and influencing people wherever I go. So much for my new leaf. _"Um, before you go to sleep...I need to use the restroom." He doesn't move, so I try to push past his extended legs. "Excuse me! Move!" I shove against his legs, and he finally pulls them in so I can pass without giving him a lap dance.

"Watch it, you fucking skank!" As soon as I'm up, he moves over and takes the window seat.

In the cramped bathroom, I take out the phone's battery and soak the handset in water in the tiny sink. Replacing the battery, I power the phone up, which should fry the internal phone circuits. The display, to my satisfaction, lights up momentarily and then turns into the black screen of death, with a weak attempt at vibration as it shuts itself down. I flush the SIM card down the toilet, watching carefully to make sure it stays down and doesn't float back into the bowl. The toilet on the bus is served by a holding tank, so the SIM card won't really be going anywhere, but it's pretty likely that no one will be looking there before the tank is emptied. As soon as possible, I'll dump the busted handset somewhere.

Even if someone later manages to recover the phone or the SIM card, I hope I've reduced the possibility that my pursuer or a forensic investigator can pull any information off the phone that will lead them to Dad or Logan. It's not a perfect solution and nowhere near as good as a sledgehammer, but what I've done has probably rendered most of the data unusable.

I head back to my seat, where my lovely seat partner has ensconced himself by the window. Now that I've warned Dad and Logan and bricked my phone, I've got to figure out a plan.

I'm assuming that Brown Suit Guy is following the bus, based on the Crown Vic I observed at the last stop. He'll be watching carefully at every stop to make sure I don't get off. If I do try to get off, he'll try to get me alone and take me into custody with a citizen's arrest. If he's a P.I. like I think, he's going to try to avoid violence.

That's if he's truly a P.I. or a Fugitive Recovery Agent. There's obviously no bail for him to recover, but Vinnie could have offered a reward for information leading to my arrest. And once Brown Suit Guy detained me, he'd have to call the cops immediately. If he hurt me in any way or transported me any distance at all, he'd be subject to a personal injury lawsuit and charges of kidnapping.

I've been so scared that I haven't really thought this through. Even a bounty hunter can't take a fugitive into custody unless they've signed a bail bond agreement that effectively signs away the defendant's civil right not to be kidnapped. I've definitely never had to post bail, although Lamb certainly tried. If this guy's on the up-and-up, actually trying to get a reward from the Neptune Sheriff's Department for my arrest, all he'd need to do to earn his fee is call the Illinois State Police and tell them I'm on a bus headed to Chicago. The cops would be waiting at the next stop to arrest me; Brown Suit Guy would have a nice payday without even getting his hands dirty or breaking a sweat.

And since we've been traveling for two hours, with no state police in sight...

He's either planning to kill me or kidnap me. And probably wants to torture me to find out where Logan went.

All he needs to do is get close enough to pull his weapon and something really bad will happen.

Suddenly I wonder if Dad and Logan are already dead, gunned down in the men's room of some squalid Greyhound terminal. I picture Dad, makeup smeared and skirt askew, lying bleeding next to a urinal...or Logan, a gaping wound in his shaven head, dumped in a deserted ravine. I'm overwhelmed by the desire to hear their voices _one last time_ and bricking my phone seems like the worst decision I've ever made..._pick up, pick up, pick up!_

I force myself to think about what I've got to do next instead of obsessing about Dad and Logan—I've got to get away from this guy, somehow. _If I— If I—_

_If I fuck up and get captured, they'll use me to get to Dad and Logan before they kill me_, I finally finish, with an knot in my stomach the size of an artery-busting stromboli from Cho's Pizzeria.

My timetable tells me we have stops coming up at Decatur and Champaign, both with short layovers, and then Markham, Chicago-95th/Dan Ryan, and Chicago. I've never been to Chicago, but I'm willing to bet that both the Chicago stops are pretty bustling, especially in the daytime. Chaos is my friend in this case; he'll have to park his car, somewhere on city streets which is probably difficult in downtown Chicago, and then hurry into the bus terminal to intercept me. Whereas at the rest stops, he can track me continuously without much difficulty. My only chance to lose Brown Suit Guy is to stay put on the bus until we get to the Windy City.

My stomach rumbles loudly, nerves as much as hunger. I haven't had anything substantial to eat since that turkey sandwich last night, about fifteen hours ago. I'd planned to get a good meal in St. Louis, an actual hot lunch to try to keep my energy up. All I have is one of the granola bars from this morning, and I dig it out and eat it between sips of water. I'm glad I have it, but it's a pitiful substitute for lunch, especially when I'm burning energy the way I have been the last twenty-four hours. All of a sudden I feel exhausted and dehydrated.

The stoner dude is watching me again. _What an ass._ "What now?" I ask testily when he doesn't stop staring.

"Sor-_ree_."

The bus driver announces that we'll be stopping in five minutes at Decatur, saying that there will be a fifteen minute rest stop. My seat partner stretches, obviously intending to take advantage of the layover.

"Listen...do you want to make a little money?" I ask, surprising myself as much as him. "I'll give you twenty bucks if you buy me a couple sandwiches and two Cokes, maybe a candy bar."

He snorts. "Why don't you buy it yourself?"

"It's complicated." He rolls his eyes and scoffs again. Thinking fast, I lean over and whisper conspiratorially, "My ex-husband is following the bus. He's been harassing me for months. He caught up to me in St. Louis and the only way I could get away was to jump on this bus. I'm going to have to try to ditch him in Chicago. Until then, I need to stay on the bus. If he catches me..." I shrug, as theatrically as I can. "I've got friends in Toledo who are gonna help me if I can get there."

"Is that what the deal was with all those texts?" he asks suspiciously. "Why'ncha just get an order of protection?"

I point to the scar under my left eye where Mercer had split my cheek, and then I show him the burn marks on my right wrist from the burning refrigerator. "Believe me, an order of protection doesn't do shit when a guy wants to hurt you. By the time the cops get there, you could be dead. He's broken my collarbone, my wrist...I had a skull fracture last year. I still get headaches." The last part is certainly true—my head is pounding from hunger, fatigue, and stress.

My unlikely hero's pasty face looks dubious. "You don't even look like you're sixteen."

"I'm almost twenty. I've been divorced for a year, married for eight months before that. Mama said not to marry him. Now she told me, you made your bed, now lie in it, and she won't help me. And Duane says in the eyes of the Lord we're still married." He stares at me, trying to decide whether he believes me. I add quickly, "I'll save you the window seat."

"All right, all right."

I give him two twenties. "Something healthy. Ham and cheese, or turkey, tuna, something like that."

"OK."

Everyone except for a couple people sleeping get off the bus. As they file off, I move over to the window seat and watch. Brown Suit Guy's Crown Vic is parked two cars away and he's leaning on his car, watching all the exiting passengers. My pursuer appears to be alone, and I wonder what happened to the schizophrenic man. _Probably dead in the St. Louis bus terminal bathroom_, I think morosely.

I realize that stoner dude could be calling the cops right now. It's nerve-wracking to be relying on him for anything.

The last of the passengers get off the bus. I watch as Brown Suit Guy pushes himself off his car and walks over to the bus. Tensing, I pull my backpack into my lap and slide the safety off the Glock again. But he doesn't try to get on the bus and instead walks alongside, peering into the windows. I shrink back, hiding from him. Without hesitating, he stops exactly at my window and bangs his fist on the glass, hard.

One of the passengers, smoking in the parking lot, stubs out his cigarette and runs inside to get the bus driver. By the time the driver has reached the bus, Brown Suit Guy is back in his car. The driver walks around the bus one time, checking for damage, then mounts the steps and looks inside; everything looks okay, so he shrugs and goes back inside the restaurant. I don't say a word even though I'm quivering in fear.

_Message received, loud and clear._

In a few minutes, stoner dude comes back on the bus with a large bag. I stand up to let him take the window seat, and he passes me the bag, which I open and start pawing through immediately. A turkey club, tuna on whole wheat with lettuce and tomatoes, a Snickers bar, and two Cokes. Heaven. I suppress a little moan and grab the tuna sandwich.

My seatmate regards me suspiciously as I unwrap the sandwich and take a large bite. "Hey, people were saying some old dude was bangin' on the bus. How old is this Duane anyways?"

I stop mid-chew. _You fucked up, Veronica. Either that or you married a fifty-ish fat guy at seventeen. _I kill a little time by swallowing and wiping my mouth. "Um, that might be Duane's dad. He's a retired cop...and, uh, a deacon in the church so—"

"Bullshit. Are you on the run from the cops?"

_Right...because that's what cops usually do, bang on a bus to intimidate a felon._ Wondering just what the stoner dude's story is, I lower my voice and say, "Shh. I guarantee you that guy is not a cop. If he was a cop, all he'd have to do to capture me is make one phone call to the state police, and they'd be pulling over this bus before you could say 'Back in Black'."

"What's he want with you?"

"Pretty sure he wants to kill me." My voice shakes a little, to my disgust.

"Did you steal money from him?"

"No. _No._" I shake my head vigorously. "You really don't want to know why he's following me."

"But you _have _money," the stoner dude persists. He nods toward my backpack.

"What are we talking about?"

"I'll help you...for a price. Five hundred?"

"That's a lot of money." I'm actually relieved that stoner dude named a relatively low price, considering I'm carrying thirty thousand dollars, but if I don't haggle with him, he'll realize that I've got substantial assets. "I was thinking more like two hundred—"

"Don't screw with me. Five hundred or I turn you over to the old guy."

"Okay, okay!" He puts his palm out, and I add, "Half now."

He scoffs. "You'll just run off after I help you and I'll never see the rest."

"Yeah, but if I give it to you now, you'll pocket it and turn me over to him." The bus is loading up again, and a couple of people are staring at our whispered conversation as they pass. I lower my voice. "I'll make it six hundred, three now, three later."

His greed wins out, and he nods his agreement. He sticks his hand out. "I'm Lynard. You know, like the band. 'Freebird'? 'Sweet Home Alabama'? My parents were big fans."

_Unbelievable._ I shake his hand and reply brightly, "Julia, like the chef."

"Huh?" It goes right over his head, as I expected. But I probably shouldn't be fucking with my new ally, anyway. My halo is becoming extremely tarnished, just one day after my resolution to be nicer. After I drop his hand, Lynard turns his palm upward. "Three hundred now, you said."


	15. Chapter 15: Plexus

**TITLE:** Plexus (15/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,780**  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Last time on 'Precipitation':_

_After her narrow escape from 'Brown Suit Guy' in St. Louis, Veronica ends up sitting next to a stringy-haired stoner dude, with whom Veronica has a bitchy exchange. Veronica warns her dad and Logan by sending them a text, and then 'bricks' the phone in case she's captured. Brown Suit Guy is ostentatiously following the bus as it heads to Chicago, and in desperation she asks the stoner dude to buy her some food at the rest stop. While Veronica's hiding on the bus, Brown Suit Guy threatens Veronica by banging on her window. She enters into an unlikely partnership with the stoner dude, Lynard, as the bus continues on to Chicago._

* * *

It turns out that Lynard makes the trip from Chicago to St. Louis and back once a month to visit his dad in the medium-security prison just outside of St. Louis. It's a break for me that he's not only knowledgeable about the route but he's also predisposed to give a criminal the benefit of a doubt—he says more than once that his dad got a shitty deal, without going into details. I don't volunteer any information about my 'crimes'. When he presses, I say mysteriously that it's much better if he doesn't know, and of course that's not too far from the truth.

We spend the next four hours plotting what we'll do when we get to the Chicago terminal. He draws a rough map of the station for me ("spent hours in that fucking hellhole waiting for buses that were delayed") and at the next rest stop, he buys me a new black T-shirt and a map of downtown Chicago after extracting an additional forty dollars from me.

About twenty minutes before we're due to arrive in Chicago, I take one last trip to the restroom. After changing into my new black T-shirt (inside out to hide '_I popped my cork in Champaign, Illinois_'), I try to coax my hair into a different look, parted on the side with my bangs flipped off my face. Rubbing a little deodorant on my hands, I make my hair look a little greasy and scrunch it into messy waves to match Lynard's effortless rock-groupie chic. I wish I'd thought to bring hair gel with me, but it works well enough. Heavy mascara is next, and I carefully blacken the edges of my eyelids with eyeliner and add dark eye shadow.

As I check one last time in the mirror, I notice that my hands are shaking. Pulling them into tight fists, I rejoin Lynard in our seat. He does a slight double take when he sees me, which I decide to view as a hopeful sign.

After letting off maybe a quarter of the passengers at 95th Street, we head up the Dan Ryan Expressway into downtown Chicago. I'm surprised, because I'd been expecting a dense mix of tall apartment and office buildings like New York City. This is gray and industrial. As we approach the city, there are clusters of two- and three-story brick buildings, squat prefab warehouses with loading docks, and lots of train tracks. This is a place where people work.

There are more and more taller buildings, and then I see a great hulking building that must be the Sears Tower dominating a jagged skyline. There's an orderliness to the skyscrapers, dagger-like spires mixed with impassive blocks of geometric perfection. And traffic...not Manhattan or Los Angeles traffic, but almost. The highways are stacked two and three high in places. It all feels very purposeful. The bus slows as the traffic builds.

We exit the expressway and I feel myself tense up. The bus proceeds down an almost residential street before turning into a more commercial section. The skyline recedes, eluding me. Innocent bystanders go about their business, in cars, riding bikes, or on foot. We pass a few storage companies and slightly seedy commercial operations. The Greyhound terminal appears on our left, glass, brick and blue steel, with fanciful posts and cables atop the roof, all painted in a tacky azure color. I guess all that extraneous metalwork is supposed to look like the rigging of a ship, but its quirkiness does nothing for me. My heart's pounding with a wild merengue rhythm and time has slowed to ten frames per second. I shrug my shoulders and stretch my neck, trying to get rid of a little tension.

"You okay?" Lynard asks as the bus turns left on a side street and then again into the terminal.

"Yeah." _I'm okay. I'm okay._ I tell myself that Brown Suit Guy might get me, but it won't be because I gave up. Lynard doesn't know that I'm armed, and when he looks away momentarily, I check again that my Glock is accessible in my backpack. It feels too small, too weak.

Just like me.

_I want my daddy..._

_I'm going to do this. I'm going to walk out of this terminal alive. I can do this. I'm going to do this._

_I want my daddy..._

The bus pulls into a slot with a hiss of brakes, jolting some of the more eager passengers who are already scrambling down the aisle. Lynard and I get right in the middle of the pack. I'm leading, and I fumble behind me for his hand. We've got to stick like glue for this to work. Once we emerge from the bus, Lynard throws his arm over my shoulder, and I snake my left hand in the back pocket of his jeans and lean my head on his shoulder. PDA just might be my best hope for a disguise.

_I really don't want Lynard to get hurt. I hate having to worry about him too._

_I want my daddy. I can't do this. I've got to do this!_

One of the attendants has opened the bay beneath the bus and is piling suitcases by the curb. We smooch a little as we watch for Lynard's gear to emerge. When he spots his bag, we push arm-in-arm through the crowd beside the bus, with a few people protesting our rudeness. He grabs a small overnight bag, and as we walk into the terminal, he's all over me, nuzzling my neck and groping me.

The terminal is full of people—the busiest of any of the stations so far. Tucking my hand in my shoulder-slung backpack, I wrap my fingers around the Glock and ease off the safety. I try to keep my attention ostentatiously on Lynard, and look around with my peripheral vision. To my right, four backpackers, sporting dreadlocks and rarely-washed clothes, lounge against a pile of framed backpacks and check a map. On my left, an unkempt woman is wandering around muttering something about a 'motherfucking motherfucker' while three college kids are gathered around a boy playing the guitar. Ahead is a large group of tourists, European, I think, based on their clothing and unusual suitcases. There's a long line at the ticket counter, and the intercom constantly spews updates about bus arrival and departure times and gate changes. But I don't see Brown Suit Guy.

"Can you see him?" I coo into Lynard's ear as we embrace. "He's wearing a brown suit, close-cropped gray hair, about six foot." I run my fingers up under his T-shirt, and a lady makes a moue of disgust as she passes us.

Lynard, about seven inches taller than me, looks over my head and around the terminal. "Yeah." He pretends to kiss the top of my head as he gazes directly behind me.

"Where? Use a clock face."

"Huh? Oh, right. Four o'clock. Back against the wall."

I keep my face strictly forward, with my head planted on Lynard's shoulder, and I don't react. _Okay, so, like I figured, that means he sped ahead of the bus and parked. Which means he's on equal footing with me, for the moment._ "Lynard, does he see us?"

"Not sure. Uh, Julia? Somebody's with him. And they're moving in our direction."

"Stick to the plan," I say. _Shit, shit, shit. What if he has more people helping him?_ Watching the entrances or..._fuck!_...waiting in a car. The terminal is loud and chaotic; three different people knock into us as they hurry for their bus. It seems like I can discern footsteps behind me, getting closer, but it's got to be my imagination.

We walk straight up to a policeman. If he recognizes me, I'm screwed, but I'm betting a low-level fugitive from California doesn't merit a BOLO in Chicago, even after a daring gun-fueled escape in small-town Arkansas. Lynard tells an aggrieved story about some old dude who stole his wallet as he was getting his bag. He turns around, looks for a moment before pointing out Brown Suit Guy to the officer. "That guy over there." Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Brown Suit Guy is moving toward us. The guy with him is young, beefy, and angry-looking, with possibly a Slavic cast to his features. I don't dare look at them more than a millisecond.

"Honey, I got to go to the ladies' room," I say, whining a little and ignoring Brown Suit Guy. I reach up and kiss Lynard's face as I press three folded hundreds into his palm.

"Okay, go. I'll catch up with you," Lynard replies, right on cue, his fingers tightening around the bills. He turns back to the cop and insists, "Dude...I need that wallet. I'm sure it was him."

The police officer and Lynard start walking directly toward Brown Suit Guy and whoever his companion is. I don't look back, but just start moving.

I walk purposefully to the street exit, mindful of Lynard's map that I've committed to memory. The bunch of tourists I saw earlier is going in my direction, and I meld into their group. I chance a look back, and I see the cop talking to an impatient Brown Suit Guy and his companion, with Lynard looking on.

_Lynard, get the fuck out of there! Tell the cop you made a mistake...now!_

As the tourist group and I burst through the doors onto the street, I break free of the others and hustle to a cab pulling up to the curb, cutting in front of a few people patiently waiting with their luggage. I ignore their protests and throw myself into the cab, telling the driver, "Union Station, please. And I'll give you an extra twenty if you hurry."

"Lady, there's only so much I can do in this traffic. If I could wave a magic wand, don't you think I would?"

"Do your best." As we pull out with a lurch, someone bangs on the window.

The cab driver jumps. "What the hell? Stupid tourists."

But I'm quite sure it's not a tourist. The window pounding seems to be a theme with this guy. "I'm not kidding about that tip," I remind the driver. There's a chorus of honking behind us, and I turn around to see a blue sedan barely missing a collision with a white station wagon. It looks like three men in the sedan, and in the front passenger seat is Brown Suit Guy. They're two cars behind us now.

My driver, a middle-aged man with a slight Polish accent, looks in his rearview mirror and sees the sedan trying to pass the car directly behind us. "What's going on back there? Lady...I repeat, what the hell!"

"It's five minutes to Union Station. The sooner you get me there, the sooner you're rid of me."

"Yeah, not if I put you out of the cab. Life's too short for this! I got agita like you wouldn't believe."

"If you stop this cab, they'll be on top of me before you can hit the gas. And I think it's a very strong possibility those guys don't want to leave any witnesses. Including cab drivers."

The driver's head whips around, his face pale and drawn. "Are you serious?" Without thinking, he lets up on the gas and the cab slows down.

"Like a heart attack. Please...we've got to get away from that car!" The traffic light ahead, upright on a pole rather than hanging overhead, turns yellow, and I add, "Gun it, and turn up there!"

The taxi speeds up, and just as the light turns red we turn right. The cabbie says, "You still want Union Station? We're heading away now—"

"Make a few turns and then head for Union Station," I reply tersely, my eyes trained on the traffic behind us.

It's not as easy as it sounds. Half of the intersections give you no choice, with either one-way streets or left-turn prohibitions. We make two more rights and then go straight for six blocks, passing under an expressway. The taxi passes a couple slower cars then speeds up as we hit a stretch of light traffic. I'm dismayed to realize that parking isn't the huge issue here that it is in New York City; that small advantage I thought I had over my pursuers melts away.

"Do you see them?" the driver asks.

"Don't think so."

"I can either turn here for Union Station or make a few more turns...lots of one-way streets here."

"I see that. Yeah, make a few more turns while I watch behind us."

We're halted at one light that seems interminable, and then we make a figure eight, three rights and two lefts. This cabbie knows Chicago well, which is a lucky break. I start to breathe a little easier, and I realize that I've been clutching the Glock since the bus terminal. My fingers are aching with tension, and I stretch them a few times, still keeping the gun a finger's width away inside my backpack. The driver hits the gas and just makes the left turn on West Jackson Boulevard as the light is changing.

And then I see them, several cars behind us. I don't know if they got lucky and saw us meandering around or if they figured out that I might head for a transportation hub to make another getaway.

The cabbie says with relief, "Hey, we did it! That's the station up ahead, the side entrance. Main entrance around the corner."

Fumbling for two twenties in my purse, I don't tell him the bad news yet. I scan the scene. There are several vacant taxis idling beside the side entrance, and on the cross street, opposite the main entrance, there are many more. I'd hoped to jump on the first train out of Chicago, wherever it was going, but even if I manage to buy a ticket and get aboard before my pursuers catch up to me, they'll know exactly where I'm going again. _Plan B it is, _I think to myself.

Ten feet from the cab stand, I say, "You're just going to drop me off. Don't wait for a fare. They're right behind us—"

"What?"

I push the money at him and open the door. "Go...now!" He guns it as I slam the door, and I run around the corner into the main entrance of the station at full speed.

In front of me are the steps I recognize from 'The Untouchables', leading down to the bright Great Hall beyond with its rows of benches and a looming arched ceiling. Lynard was right: the station is huge, and he'd promised that there were a million places to hide, with shops, food kiosks, and waiting areas all over the place. And more than a few dark areas behind the decorative columns where you just might find a drug deal going down, he'd told me with a knowing smirk. A methodical search of the mezzanine and concourse would eventually turn up a petite fugitive, even if she kept moving, but I don't plan on being here that long.

I glance from right to left. As my eyes adjust to the darkened interior, I scan the unlit balcony on either side of the long staircase. There are three tourists in shadow to my left, leaning over the balcony and videotaping the Great Hall. I walk over there and stand just beyond them. They give me an annoyed look but don't say or do anything as I pull off the black T-shirt to reveal a yellow tank top underneath. I stuff the tee in my backpack and pull my hair back into a ponytail, combing it with my fingers. The woman tourist's face looks as if I've skeeved her out by performing my hygiene in her personal space.

And then I wait. I pull out the bricked cell phone and pretend to use it left-handed to take pictures of The Great Hall below. My right hand, cramped with stress, stays firmly grasped on the Glock inside my backpack. The huge clock above the street exit tells me that two minutes pass, but it feels like twenty before Brown Suit Guy and the other man from the Greyhound station enter the building. That leaves the driver outside in the car, I calculate. My pursuers, their eyes unaccustomed to the darkness of the balcony, give my area only a cursory look before hustling down the stairs. Brown Suit Guy heads left and his partner veers right once they're down in the Great Hall. As soon as they're out of eye sight, I exit the building, walking as calmly as I can.

I turn left, in the opposite direction from which I came, walk to the end of the block, and cross the street with the light. Right in the middle of the intersection, I discreetly drop my busted cell phone where it will certainly get crushed by traffic within seconds. It's just a few steps to the first waiting cab, and I get in without hesitation.

"Navy Pier, please," I instruct the driver.

His voice drips with false bonhomie, apparently assuming that I'm just another tourist. "Welcome to the Windy City. I hope you'll enjoy your stay."

Two of my pursuers are still in Union Station. Did the third guy see me leave? I watch behind the cab but don't see the blue sedan. I think.

I check my watch. 7:35pm. Twenty-five hours since I first got on a Greyhound in Shreveport, Louisiana. "How late is Navy Pier open?"

"Ten p.m., ma'am." A few seconds later, when we stop for a light at an intersection, he asks, "Would you like me to take Lakeshore Drive or West Illinois?"

"Excuse me?" I've been going over what Lynard had told me about Navy Pier, which frankly sounded like tourist hell to me, but was far enough away from the train station that I'd be able to detect a tail, and was a great place to ditch my pursuers if necessary. "I don't know. Whichever's faster."

"You got it." He swings the cab into a right turn. I keep watching behind us, trying to spot a blue sedan jockeying for position. We're on a one-way street headed east, three lanes fraught with danger—too damned easy for a car to maneuver and catch us. I see a silver subcompact, a delivery truck, and a white paneled van. The only sedan I see is an older tan General Motors model about four cars behind us. There are several cabs, both behind us and on either side of us.

_Is that one cab a little too close? _I realize that Brown Suit Guy could have discerned my fakeout at Union Station, grabbing a taxi just as I had, and my heart starts pounding again. Forcing down my panic, I tell myself that he didn't see me get into this cab, there's no way he knows I'm—

"Something wrong?" the driver asks. I turn and see him watching me in the rearview mirror.

"Oh, just someone I thought I knew back there," I say, as casually as possible. My voice quivers a little, to my disgust. "Guess I was wrong." I'll have to be more subtle when I watch.

We're driving through a canyon of skyscrapers, tall buildings dwarfing us in our tiny vehicle. There are more and more taxis as we proceed. The cab turns right again onto a divided street with a cutout in the middle.

The cab driver announces, "We're on upper Wacker Drive now, a double-decker road that runs along the Chicago River. Trucks and local traffic have to go on the lower level. It was completed in 1926 and is considered the precursor to the modern highway."

"Really."

Another block, and he points at a black glass building on our left and launches into a long spiel about the Willis Tower—"you know, the Sears Tower." I take the opportunity of his concentration on his subject matter to check behind us again; no blue sedan that I can see.

We turn left onto another one-way street that we're sharing with several buses. I turn to my left and pretend to ooh and ahh about the Sears Tower, but in reality I'm watching to see who turns along with us. Two cabs and a red coupe follow us down the cramped four-lane street lined with parked cars and delivery trucks on both sides. A bus pulls out from a bus stop after the red coupe, blocking my sight further back. There's some jockeying for position, but nothing that seems too nefarious.

"On your right, Giordano's Famous Pizzeria." My stomach rumbles at the thought of a real meal after too many sandwiches in a row. A few blocks later, he points out the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago, the Bank of America, and the Chicago Board of Trade. But my attention is drawn to the McDonald's on our right—I'm suddenly starving.

The neighborhood deteriorates, with a check cashing place, a cheap-looking burrito barn, and a dilapidated church. We pass under the elevated train, and I'm suddenly overcome with the longing to be an actual tourist here, to be wandering these streets with Dad and Logan, taking corny pictures and stuffing ourselves with Chicago deep-dish.

The canyon of buildings around us opens up, and I can see to the eastern horizon. The setting sun behind us is turning the sky ahead subtle shades of blue and purple. We enter a large grassy, tree-filled area, 'Grant Park', I recall from the map that Lynard had procured for me. The cab driver points out the sights as we move through the park. "Symphony Center…Art Institute of Chicago…Petrillo Bandshell." This greenspace is symmetrical and orderly: too beautiful, too serene, too impossibly normal compared to my situation.

I look back again, and see a sedan behind us. Dark grey? Blue? I can't tell with the glare of the setting sun in my eyes. The cabbie is lingering a bit in the park, trying to give his fare the full tourist treatment, and the sedan is pacing us perfectly. I tell myself it can't be Brown Suit Guy's buddy. There's no way.

But when we get in the left lane to turn, the sedan does as well.

And when we turn onto Lakeshore Drive ("...originally built by the city to provide a carriageway for millionaire Potter Palmer's lakefront castle...") the sun glare diminishes, and I can see that the sedan following us is definitely dark blue, with a single person behind the wheel.


	16. Chapter 16: Pier

**TITLE:** Pier (16/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 6,151**  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Last time on 'Precipitation':_

_Lynard helps Veronica get safely out of the bus terminal in Chicago, by pretending to be her boyfriend and then telling a cop that Brown Suit Guy stole his wallet to let her get away. But Brown Suit Guy and his companion see Veronica jump in a taxi; despite her efforts to shake them, they tail her in a dark blue sedan to Union Station. She doubles back and gets another cab heading for the Navy Pier, a tourist attraction on Lake Michigan. All seems to be clear, with no one following her, and then suddenly a dark blue sedan is behind her again._

* * *

Lakeshore Drive is expansive, with eight lanes of brisk traffic. To our right is Lake Michigan, with joggers and couples holding hands on the path bordering the lake. To our left and in front of us I can see Chicago's massive skyscrapers. And directly behind us is a dark blue sedan that looks exactly like the car that was following me from the Greyhound terminal earlier today.

"Excuse me," I ask, leaning forward. "Could we get in the right lane? I'd really like to see the lake."

The cabbie obliges, and I watch the sedan move along with us to the rightmost lane. Coincidence? _Wishful thinking, Veronica._ I can't see the driver's features in the twilight. We pass the exit for Randolph Street and Wacker Drive and the sedan continues to keep our pace. As the cabbie points out Navy Pier, now visible across the bay of Lake Michigan, traffic thins slightly, and we speed up. The blue sedan falls back a little, but when a car tries to get in between us, my pursuer speeds up to stay with us.

It takes every ounce of courage I've got not to tell the cabbie that I've changed my mind. The sign announcing the exit for Navy Pier flashes by while I'm dithering, and I decide that I don't have any better options—I'm going for it. As we curve off the highway, I stare at my pursuer, trying to memorize his features, but through his tinted windshield all I can make out is that he's a dark-haired white man.

We exit for Navy Pier, winding through a park. My driver keeps up a constant narration, telling me about the most popular attractions within the site. Lynard had drawn me a rough map of the area, and as he'd suggested, I ask the taxi to bypass the pedestrian entrance by the Children's Museum and instead turn right onto the pier itself.

The sedan is directly behind us now, the only other car that turns with us, and that last one percent of hope I had disappears. The narrow roadway along the northern edge of the pier appears to be mostly used for access to the loading docks and the on-site parking garage, and the sidewalk is dotted with 'no parking–tow zone' signs. A yellow-vested police officer, a ticket book in hand, is forcing idling cars to move along. About halfway down the roadway, my taxi pulls into a drop-off area, right next to the parking garage.

Unless my pursuer wants to get towed, he's going to have to go in the parking garage. I give my driver a reasonable tip and thank him before moving quickly into the complex, hurrying just a little faster than the average tourist. In my peripheral vision, I see the blue sedan turn into the parking garage, taking the turn just a bit too fast with one wheel going over the curb.

Once the car is out of sight, I turn and go into a tacky souvenir shop that adjoins the taxi drop-off area. After selecting a few items, I watch as a family, two couples, and then finally a single man leave the garage's pedestrian exit.

I duck behind a display rack of baseball caps and memorize my pursuer's features: dark wavy hair, scowling face with a hint of five-o'clock shadow, tall, maybe 6'2". He doesn't look that old, maybe thirties, and he's wearing a navy windbreaker and jeans. He's talking on a cell phone as he looks around, only about forty feet away from me.

Every nerve fiber in my body is twitching, telling me to run, and when he starts walking in my direction I pull back behind the rack of gaudy baseball caps. I look around wildly, trying to decide my best option for escape, but he walks right past the store into the busy passageway filled with tourists, scanning as he walks. His cell phone remains firmly planted on his ear and he seems agitated.

Am I being paranoid? How the hell did he follow me here? We did drive a fairly straightforward route from Union Station to Navy Pier, but I'd been checking for a tail the whole way.

It scares the shit out of me that he didn't care if I saw him following.

Another taxi pulls up, and my breath catches as I look closer. The cab has a number on its roof, and I'm betting that the blue sedan lost me at first, but knew the number of the cab I'd taken. With all of Chicago's one-way streets, there was only a few possible directions. So he must have caught up to me somewhere along the way. Maybe the three of them split up to find me. They could be converging on me on the pier right now. I berate myself for not ditching the cab sooner, but logically I know that could have been just as bad if not worse.

With my pursuer identified, I pay for my purchases: a fake fedora, a red "Chicago Bulls" T-shirt, a disposable camera, and cheap but functional binoculars. The clerk shrugs her acquiescence when I ask for one of her larger shopping bags. Hiding behind a rack of postcards, I don the T-shirt over my tank top, sling the binoculars around my neck, and top it off with my new hat. All the contents of my backpack are emptied into the shopping bag, except for the Glock, which I discreetly slip into my waistband under the untucked T-shirt that I purchased just a bit too large for me. I dump my backpack in a garbage can, and voilà, I'm a typical tourist.

Heading in the opposite direction of my pursuer, I follow a circuitous route while constantly observing everyone and everything around me. I'm expecting to see Brown Suit Guy around every corner, and I force myself to walk steadily around Navy Pier, imitating the languorous pace of the crowd.

I'm reminded of the Santa Monica Pier that I've visited many times. In addition to a Ferris wheel and other rides, there are souvenir shops, fast food restaurants masquerading as exotic cuisine, unhealthy snacks galore, and vendors selling everything from cheap costume jewelry to fake tattoos. The tattoos remind me of Logan, hopefully safe on a Greyhound somewhere in Florida or Georgia. A band on an outdoor stage belting out 'Ain't Too Proud to Beg' mixes with the dinging of arcade games, the distant sounds of the carousel, and people talking loudly to make themselves heard over the general din.

People are everywhere, most of them moving slowly and all of them taking picture after picture, almost subconsciously following a universal tourist protocol. There's an overpowering aroma of burnt sugar, popcorn, fried grease, and human beings—their odors, their garbage. For a moment I can't figure out what's missing, and then I realize it's the smell of the ocean that I associate with the Santa Monica Pier. This air has a tang from Lake Michigan that's distinctly different.

I join a group of four people about my age for a few feet; when they stop to look at the signs for the Funhouse Maze, I continue on. There's a stand selling overpriced funnel cakes, and I buy one, eating it as I walk and buzzing from the sugar. Another trio of teenage girls is in front of me, and I match their pace for twenty feet, until they slow to a crawl and I have to move past them.

I make good progress until they turn the lights of the Ferris wheel on, and then it seems like every person has to stop and point, oohing and aahing. And since I must not stand out, I do the same, and take a few shots with my new camera. It is pretty cool-looking, with the tall buildings of the city beyond in the twilight.

I'll come back here someday and have fun, I swear to myself suddenly. Logan and I will laugh about the fake tattoos and mock the tourists; we'll stuff ourselves with cotton candy and ride the Ferris wheel until we're dizzy. And then I remember that we're going to be lying low in Chapel Hill for the rest of our lives, and my ridiculous plans evaporate.

I shake off my distress and keep moving. I'm still pretty well-oriented, and my plan is to eventually head for the westernmost entrance to the site that we'd bypassed when we arrived. Spotting a ramp to the upper level, I walk up and use my binoculars to scan the crowd. It takes a few passes before I spot my friend pushing through the crowd quite a ways back along the pier. To my relief, I can't see Brown Suit Guy or his companion anywhere in the crowds. When I look back, the man in the navy windbreaker is turning around. He asks one of the vendors a question and then begins making his way through the throngs of people, moving in the opposite direction from my position.

Which is my cue to go. I hustle down the ramp and head for the entrance, watching nervously for my other two pursuers. There are still people here, but it's not as crowded as the bustling shopping arcade. I pass the carousel, the Wave Swinger ride, and a Mexican restaurant blasting canned mariachi music. As I reach the end of the pier, it's just a few of us walking toward the Children's Museum at the main entrance.

I gauge my speed carefully, glomming onto two small groups and ducking momentarily into a bar before I reach the taxi stand. Most of the tourists are waiting for a trolley, and the rest of us are grouped at the taxi stand. A family of three takes the first cab just as a large group of children exit the Children's Museum, faces painted in neon colors, giggling and shoving each other as they walk.

Another taxi pulls up, with a single passenger. Through the window I see a dark suit, short gray hair. _Can't be, can't be, you're just being paranoid, Veronica—there are lots of guys with short gray hair in Chicago._

The man is paying the driver and hasn't seen me—and then he turns and we recognize each other: it's Brown Suit Guy. The door opens and I take off running, my nemesis still a little stunned. A quick glance behind me, and the man in the blue windbreaker is closing fast as well, about fifty feet away. _Where the hell did he come from? _The Brown Suit Guy trips over all the kids milling around, which gives me a little head start.

Back into Navy Pier? No, all they'll have to do is watch the exits. At closing time, I'll get escorted out. And the kids...there's kids everywhere all of a sudden. Too much chance that someone will get hurt if they come after me.

So across the street it is, with car horns blaring at me as I cross against the light. I dodge and weave, just barely leaping out of the way of a belligerent taxi. My fedora hat goes flying, and the binoculars bang against my chest as I run—I pull them off and drop them into the road. The Glock digs into my waist on every other stride.

To my left, a well-lit city block of grassy plaza, with no cover except for sparsely spaced single trees. Beyond, a tall apartment building dominates the entire area. To my right, a large park that extends down the street with more trees and some kind of stone structure, and then buildings just beyond the park. On the horizon, the skyscrapers of Chicago mock me. I hear another set of car horns and assume Brown Suit Guy is right behind me running through traffic.

It's not a plan. It's just adrenaline and desperation, breathlessness and digging deep for that last reserve of energy as I run faster than I've ever run.

I head right, entering the park and intending to use the trees for cover to exit on the opposite side, but as I get further in, I see the park is a trap. The far boundary of the park is Lakeshore Drive, with no pedestrian access here. It's a concrete mountain, unscalable.

I run toward the stone structure I'd seen from Navy Pier. It's a long rectangular gazebo—a permanent metal canopy—with stone pillars every four feet. The sparse lighting in the park creates a alternating patchwork of shadow, light, shadow, light, along the walkway of the gazebo, and I imagine my pursuers seeing my image strobing through the supports as I sprint through the gazebo.

There's nowhere to go when I emerge from the other end of the structure.

Nothing in front of me but another open expanse of park with only a few trees. No crowd of people to hide in, no bus, no taxi, no policeman, no cell phone, no rape whistle. No one to hear me scream. There's Lake Michigan bordering the park—a convenient place to dump my body.

Cowering behind the last stone pillar of the gazebo, I try to breathe as silently as I can. I take my Glock out of my waistband and release the safety. I clutch my shopping bag tightly to my chest—I can't lose the money I've cached there and I don't have time to fish it out. Turning a little, I try to see where they are, inching out from behind the pillar until I spot the two men converging on the park, each man holding a weapon at his side.

I duck back behind the pillar. If I can't see them...they can't see me.

_Should I set a trap, and try to shoot them before they see me? Am I a good enough shot to do this? Should I run? Should I wait and try to pick them off one at a time?_

_'You are not a killer, Veronica.'_

I gauge their progress, and stealthily move back toward the pier one pillar at a time, staying on the outside of the dimly lit gazebo. My petite body is thoroughly concealed by the squat stone pillars—at least, that's my hope. As I slip behind the next pillar, I see that they've split up; one is circling around while the other is coming right toward me, heading for the gazebo.

The darkness deepens, and the antique streetlights in the park throw off little circles of light at regular intervals. Suddenly, to my right about sixty feet away, I see a taxi coming down the street bordering the park, its turn signal and headlights on. It pulls into a valet area for the monstrous condominium looming over the park. In my terror, I'd seen just an impenetrable monolith and failed to notice the U-shaped drive-through at the base of the building.

_Maybe..._

Two more pillars, and I'm halfway, and the man in the blue windbreaker passes right beside me on the interior of the gazebo. I hold my breath for ten seconds, and then it's time to _move_.

As quiet as I am, he hears me and I hear _him_. His running footsteps echo on the gazebo's concrete floor. My arms are pumping, trying for an extra burst of speed, my lungs exploding with the need for oxygen, legs aching, _tired, so tired._

The footsteps sound closer—he's catching up to me..._oh my god, oh my god._

At the last pillar, I pause for a millisecond, and then reach around the pillar and fire three shots, without aiming. I take off like a rocket across the street to the apartment building, tucking the Glock back into my waistband, praying that I won't need it again. Once more, I fly into traffic heedless of the oncoming vehicles and dart into the valet parking as a horn blares and a voice calls out, "Asshole!" The taxi I'd seen a minute before is just pulling out onto the street, its vacancy sign lit up, and I hammer on the window. "Please, please, please!" I sputter, and the cab stops. I throw myself into the back seat.

"Where to, miss? ...Hey, are you okay?"

"Um. Um. Yeah, I'm okay. The Sheraton," I mumble, naming the first hotel that comes to mind.

"The Towers Sheraton or the Airport Sheraton?"

_Fuck! Whatever. Just go! _"The Towers. ...That's not too far from here, is it?"

"Just five minutes or so, this time of night."

As we pull out, I see a huddled shape lying in the gazebo, and Brown Suit Guy looking balefully at the cab from across the street, his gun hand concealed under his suit jacket.

The taxi driver says cheerfully, "They must be starting the fireworks show a little earlier this year."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't you hear the firecrackers a few minutes ago? They have a fireworks show on Navy Pier every Wednesday and Saturday."

"Oh, that's what that was," I reply lamely. I have one last chance to look as the cab accelerates, and that body-sized lump in the gazebo still isn't moving.

_I killed him. Did I kill him? Oh my god._

I see the cab driver's eyes on me in the rearview mirror. "Miss, you sure you're okay?"

"I think so," I reply. It's a goddamn lie, but the truth would probably make his head explode.

I'm pretty sure that Brown Suit Guy and his friends tracked me to Navy Pier by the cab's number, so I still have to lay some false trails. I won't make that mistake again. And then—I need about twenty-four solid hours of sleep and a large hot meal. And a really long shower. _I'm almost there,_ I promise myself. _Just a few more subterfuges._

_I killed a man tonight._ That unmoving lump in the gazebo haunts me.

It's not far to the Sheraton from Navy Pier—walking distance, in fact, but because of Chicago's one-way streets, it takes us the five minutes the taxi driver promised. Just as we pass the Embassy Suites Hotel, I see the Sheraton up ahead on the left, and it gives me an idea.

We turn left on a dead-end street that's only used for access to the hotel, so I can easily see that no one has tailed us. In the Sheraton lobby, I make sure to chat with the bellhop, hoping he'll remember me if anyone comes asking. Near the concierge is a large display rack of flyers for tourist attractions and Chicago information. I pick up another city map that includes the suburbs, all the public transportation information available, and flyers for a few of the attractions.

Wandering through the Sheraton, I head for Shula's Steakhouse, packed with customers at this time of night, and exit through a different entrance onto the street we'd driven to get here, North Columbus Drive. No cabs here, but the Embassy Suites I'd noted before are just a block away. There's an open plaza between the two hotels, deserted at this hour, and I feel awfully exposed walking through it. I pass a garbage can, and I dump all the flyers for tourist attractions, keeping the maps and public transportation schedules.

In the Embassy Suites, I find a side door and enter. Quickly scoping out the lobby, I duck into a ladies' room. I look haggard in the mirror, with the remains of the creepy mascara from earlier, dark circles under my eyes, and greasy hair.

_Murderer. Killer._

Trashing my new Chicago Bulls T-shirt, I put on my last clean shirt, a tank top that looks reasonably okay, although my jeans could walk home to Neptune at this point. I do the best I can with my appearance, splashing water on my face and combing my hair.

There's a tense moment when I can't locate the bundle of cash in my shopping bag. I finally find it wrapped in my last clean pair of underwear at the bottom of the bag, and I slump onto the sink in sheer relief, breathing hard and shaking a little. My gun goes in the shopping bag as well, because I can't hide it with the tank top. _Next time, I'm getting an ankle holster and a money belt,_ I promise myself sarcastically.

I exit the restroom and pretend to enter the lobby from the stairs. Approaching the concierge with a smile, I put my Southern belle accent back on. "Do you think you might be able to help me?"

"Of course, miss."

"I've heard so much about y'all's Blues clubs. Could you recommend one? One where a single lady such as myself might be all right this time of night. And without having to get all dressed up, please." I'm so tired that I have trouble maintaining the pretense of a Southern accent, but the concierge doesn't seem to notice that my inflection is all over the place.

He asks dubiously, "You're over twenty-one?" When I nod, he checks his watch and replies, "Well, then, Buddy Guy's is a lot of fun. The main act goes on around 8 and again at 10—there are usually two or three sets. They've got a full menu there, sandwiches, burgers, entrees, you name it."

"Ooh, I've heard of him. Guitar, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Would you like me to call you a cab?"

"Could y'all? That would be simply splendid."

The concierge picks up a phone and mutters into the receiver. Hanging up, he says, "About five minutes, miss."

"Thank you kindly," I reply, pretending to smile broadly.

While I'm waiting, I watch carefully as cars pass by the Embassy Suite's entrance. No dark blue sedan. No evil mobster wearing a brown suit and looking to kill me. And no cops looking for the young woman who killed a man over by Navy Pier. I start worrying that the cab driver who drove me to the Sheraton will make a connection between his young, out-of-breath, female fare and a mob shooting in the nearby park.

Five minutes later, a taxi pulls up out front, and I step in. "Buddy Guy's?" he inquires.

"Yes."

He turns back toward the Sheraton, and we head south down North Columbus Drive. I'm trying desperately to stay oriented, as well as watching to see if anyone is following. By the map in the cab, I'm pretty sure that we're in the Loop. There are plenty of cars on the streets, despite the late hour, and apparently it's a straight shot down North Columbus to the blues club.

I ask the cabbie, "Do you mind? I'm just visiting for a few days...could you show me a few buildings that are worth visiting while I'm here, maybe drive around a little. Just a few of the biggies, things that are right here downtown."

"It's going to be a few more dollars."

"Oh, that's fine."

He turns right at the next light and gives me the ten-cent tour. I pretend to look in awe at the buildings, but I'm really checking to see if anyone is following. After five minutes of this, I pretend to check my watch. "Oh dear, we better get to that club. I'm meeting someone at 9:30. Thank you so much."

Five minutes later, he deposits me at Buddy Guy's. I fake going inside as he drives off, then turn around and start looking for a new cab.

When I left the club, my next cabdriver had obligingly recommended a cheap hotel in Chinatown, named, imaginatively, The ChinaTown Hotel. I've booked a room for two nights, and now I walk into an economical but clean room and sink onto the bed in utter exhaustion. I know that if I lie down, I'll be asleep in ten seconds, but I sit on the edge of bed for a few minutes just trying to breathe and think.

_I killed a man tonight._ I push the thought away. Y_ou don't know that he's dead, Veronica._

_'You are not a killer, Veronica.'_

I don't actually feel safe, but the adrenaline edge of panic has ebbed away with the multiple evasive maneuvers. There's no way that I've been followed here, after two hotels, a blues club and three cabs with no sign of a tail. The only way Brown Suit Guy will find me in this hotel room is by sheer luck.

'Brown Suit Guy': I've been too afraid to admit it to myself, but I'm sure that Brown Suit Guy is one of Gory's people. I'm sure of it. They seemed far too ruthless for private dicks or bounty hunters; I have no doubt that my pursuers wouldn't have hesitated to dispose of any of today's cab drivers if necessary, and I could have easily ended up being the one lying dead in the park tonight.

There's a knock on the door. I grab my Glock and cross the room, switching off the safety as I walk. "Who is it?"

"Ricobene's. You ordered pizza?" The desk clerk had ordered a deep-dish pizza to be delivered to my room, and I almost swoon at the thought of hot food. I check through the peephole and see a teenage boy wearing a 'Ricobene's' T-shirt, white with a green and red logo.

"I, um, I'm not dressed right now." One fewer person to see my face in this hotel, I'm hoping. "Okay if I slip the money under the door? What's the damage?"

"$16.45—without the tip."

I fumble in my wallet and slip a twenty under the door. "Thank you."

"Have a good night."

I watch through the peephole as the delivery boy walks to the end of the hall and down the stairs, and then I pull open the door and bring in the pizza, moaning a little at how good it smells. The 'Do Not Disturb' sign swings on the door handle as I start to close the door, and I take a moment to place it on the outside knob.

The pizza disappears quickly, although I force myself to eat slowly so I don't get sick. Deep-dish pizza is everything it's been touted to be, a wonderfully thick crust baked to perfection, incredibly greasy and dripping with tomato sauce. I decide that I prefer Chicago pizza to New York.

After a long shower—it's amazing how bad you smell after riding a bus for twenty-four hours—I get to work. I spread out the train schedules and begin calculating various routes. The problem is that Gory's people know that I'm in Chicago, and they'll be watching all the transportation hubs. I've got to find a way to get out of this town.

Finally, I figure something out that might work. And then I start thinking about disguises: what's possible, can it be sustained, is it flexible if I need to change it midcourse, will it work? I've got to be careful not to draw attention to myself. It's not just Gory, after all, who's looking for me.

But for Gory's people, it's personal now. They were beaten by a teenage girl, and they're going to have something to prove, to themselves and to the people they report to. It's going to be that much harder not to get caught or lead them straight to Dad and Logan.

At midnight, completely exhausted, I go to bed with a plan.

Despite my fatigue, I don't sleep at first. I imagine Logan, head shaved and arms and neck tattooed, riding on a bus through small Southern towns...a sitting duck if Gory's crew happens to check a Greyhound terminal that Logan passes through. Futilely, I try to comfort myself by remembering how many terminals there are and how Dad had disguised him, and I hope that every terminal he passes through is chaotic and bustling. And I worry, because I know he doesn't have the experience I do, to notice surveillance, to change his disguise, to change his strategy at the drop of a hat.

That reunion that I long for is seeming awfully far away. It's. not. _fair_. We'd just started talking again. I'd finally told Logan things I should have said months ago—why I'm such a lunatic about Madison, how much I've missed him, and that I really, really should have listened to him when he told me I was taking too many chances.

And now...I've killed a man.

I sleep for twelve hours and awaken at noon. I have a lot to do today, so I get going as fast as I can. Chinatown is perfect for the first part of my plan. At the Chinatown Bazaar, two blocks away from my hotel, I pick up the clothing I'll need: two size eight ladies blouses, one in sea foam green with a black line print, the other in a gray check; two pairs size eight petite slacks, in black and gray; two pairs leggings; four fitted T-shirts; dressy flat sandals and black high heel shoes that seem comfortable enough to walk in, maybe even run a little; and new underwear to replace the dirty pairs I've tossed along the way.

The Bazaar has anything you could ever want, at a price anyone could afford, so I also buy a battery-operated curling iron, hairspray and gel, some barrettes, a makeup mirror (useful for looking behind me), a paperback novel, and three new prepaid cellular phones. To put it all in, I buy a stylish bike messenger bag.

At Chinatown Vision Associates, I purchase a pair of 'computer glasses', clear glass with a reflective coating to make it easier to work in front of a screen all day long. I select slightly squared dark frames that make my reflection look studious.

Next, at the Lotus House of Beauty, five blocks away, I'm a walk-in. After a short wait, I ask for a more 'mature' hair style and a new reddish-brown color, explaining that I have a job interview tomorrow morning. Ninety minutes later, I walk out with a slightly shorter, layered cut with a subtle auburn tint that frames my face in a new way.

I buy a Chicago Sun-Times newspaper from a vending machine on the street and learn that Anatoly Ponomarev, 32, a three-time convict for battery, robbery, and menacing charges, was found dead the night before in Jane Adams Memorial Park with a bullet wound in the abdomen. The police have no suspects and are seeking witnesses. I make a mental note to get rid of the Glock as soon as I get to Chapel Hill.

A weight like concrete sinks into me as my last hope disappears. _I killed a man. Someone who was breathing yesterday isn't alive today, because of me._

_But _I'm_ alive. It was him or me. Him or me._

My guilty conscience has been nagging at me for the last few hours, and I use one of the burn phones to call Lynard's cell. After a few rings he answers, "Yo," clearly still alive. I disconnect and trash the phone down a sewer grate.

At 5:30, I walk out of the back door of the ChinaTown Hotel, dressed in the two pairs of leggings and all four of the fitted T-shirts under the light green shirt and gray slacks. With the eyeglasses, the new haircut, and the extra clothing layers, I look at least fifteen pounds heavier and ten years older. It's a little weird to be back up on my usual high heels after wearing tennis shoes since we left Neptune, and I feel awkward wearing all these clothes.

The second cab I hail agrees to take me to South Bend, Indiana. It's $175.00 on the meter plus a fifty dollar tip to the Amtrak Station there, more than I'd like to spend but absolutely necessary, in my opinion. We hit rush hour traffic, and I get to the South Bend train station with only twenty minutes to spare, which is actually perfect.

I buy a sleeper car ticket, a "roomette" to New York City, with a one hour layover in Washington, D.C. It's an extra $336 to have the roomette to myself, but it feels incredibly safe after everything I've been through—I don't even need to go to the dining car to eat. Justifying the extra expense to myself, I decide that if it keeps someone from following me to Chapel Hill, it's totally worth it.

I hide in my civilized little bedroom the entire time, sleeping through the night and then watching the world flash by my window when I wake up the next morning. There's no way I could keep up the pretense of a casual conversation; the solitude is perfect for my mood. For seventeen hours, the train wheels whisper to me, _you killed a man, you killed a man, you killed a man._

At 5 p.m. the next day in Philadelphia, I disembark early and find an economical hotel for overnight without incident. I test a Philadelphia cheesesteak and pronounce it inferior to both New York and Chicago pizza, but still delicious. _Just a tourist in the City of Brotherly Love, right? Not on the lam. Not a desperate criminal._ Another bite, and I feel nauseated. I end up tossing half the cheesesteak in the garbage.

In my hotel room that night, I look at myself in the mirror, trying to determine if it shows on my face: _you killed a man. _I take the Glock out and stare at it. It lies on the bed like a living thing, purposeful and evil, smelling a little like death. I put it on the nightstand and try to get some sleep. It's a restless night filled with nightmares of the door to my room crashing open, Russian mafia or Chicago police finally catching up with me here in Philadelphia.

The next morning, I board a train for Charlotte, North Carolina. The option of a roomette isn't available for this train, and throughout the day, I find myself switching cars frequently. It doesn't take much to spook me—an overlong glance or a suit jacket that seems to bulge where it shouldn't. Just outside of Alexandria, Virginia, a man follows me from the dining car after I grab lunch. He sits down right next to me and I tense up, half expecting him to pull a weapon and take me into custody. I pretend to fumble in my messenger bag for something, reassuring myself that my Glock is there if I need it. But the man flips open a newspaper and doesn't seem to notice when a few minutes later I leave to find a new seat in a different car.

The next stop is Quantico, where my FBI internship would have been. I haven't thought about that particular facet of my old life for days, but everything I've lost comes back to me now: the Hearst Scholarship, a career in the FBI, Mac and Wallace, and Backup. I'd been so desperate to leave Neptune after senior year. But I'm not that girl anymore; I'd give anything to be able to share a Joltin' Java with my friends again. The train pulls out of the station. The FBI is in the rearview, along with everything else from my old life.

We continue south through Virginia and then cross over in North Carolina. I'm ticketed through to Charlotte, but I'm planning to ditch in Raleigh, which is as close to Chapel Hill as Amtrak gets. Each subsequent stop ratchets up my nervousness. I've traveled in a straight line with no subterfuges since Philadelphia, and the possibility looms that someone's been following me and biding their time, hoping that I'll lead them right to Dad and Logan.

So in Raleigh I decide to leave one more false trail. I exit the Amtrak station and look around for a hotel, but I find an even better option, the Raleigh Convention Center just a block and a half away. There are three conventions going on, and I wander around for twenty minutes. Exiting on a street behind the center, I hail a taxi. The driver is happy to give me a tour of downtown Raleigh, and then, when I'm finally satisfied that there's no way anyone's tailing me, I ask the cabbie to take me to Chapel Hill.

As we drive down the highway, I text Dad for instructions, signing my text, 'Princess'. I'm relieved when I get the return text addressed to 'Honeybun', the code that tells me he too is safe. At 7:30, four days and three hours after we split up, Dad and I are reunited at the picturesque Chapel Hill Public Library, and we head off on foot to our new basement apartment, where Logan is anxiously waiting to see me.

The new me, that is. The woman who killed a man in Chicago.

* * *

_**~ I'm taking a little break from writing/posting  
due to health issues. Your patience is appreciated.  
I'll be back soon.**_ ~


	17. Chapter 17: Perception

**TITLE:** Perception (17/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 6,170**  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. Both my betas have really contributed greatly to this story, looking at chapters multiple times. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Last time on 'Precipitation':_

_Veronica leads her pursuer into Navy Pier, a tourist attraction on Lake Michigan. She identifies him (thirties, dark hair and a blue windbreaker) and disguises herself as a tourist. Just as she is about to exit Navy Pier, Brown Suit Guy shows up in a taxi. The two men pursue her into a park; she hides behind a pillar in a gazebo as they track her. She fires three shots wildly and takes off running, but one of the bullets hits the man in the blue windbreaker, and he does not survive_.

_Veronica manages to get away and, after a few more subterfuges and false trails around Chicago, she spends the night in Chinatown to regroup. In the morning, she creates a new disguise (reddish-brown hair dye, more mature haircut and clothes, glasses and high heels). She takes a cab to South Bend, Indiana and from there, Amtrak to Philadelphia and then south to Charlotte, disembarking at Raleigh and taking a taxi to meet her father in Chapel Hill._

_On the final leg of her journey, she's tormented by thoughts of the shooting in Chicago._

* * *

They watch me eat: spaghetti with generic sauce from a jar and a lettuce and tomato salad. It tastes like cardboard, but I choke it down, uncomfortably aware of their concerned expressions. I must look like hell. Dad's said, "No questions until she's had a bite." I thought I'd be relaxed when I finally got here, but I'm as tense as a virgin on prom night.

After dinner, there's an awkward moment when the two men both try to sit next to me, but Dad steps aside, taking a well-worn recliner beside the sofa. Ever since we reunited, Dad seems to need to stay physically close to me. He touches me frequently, patting my knee and kissing the top of my head when he goes to get me a glass of water.

Logan's arm wraps tightly around my shoulders as we sit on the couch. It's just as well that Logan's beside me, because I hate looking at him now, the ugly tattoos faded but still there, still horrifying.

And there's that _other_ thing, the thing I don't want Logan to see in _me_. So I avoid his probing eyes and look around our new digs.

Dad's found a small basement apartment for us, with one miniscule bedroom, an eat-in kitchen, and a fold-out couch in the modest living room. Much smaller than the Sunset Cliffs apartment, it's extremely close quarters for three people. But the rent is almost nonexistent, since Dad took the job of on-site maintenance man for the apartment complex.

It's furnished with clean but mismatched furniture, industrial-grade wall-to-wall carpeting, a small television and one wall phone. The kitchen is bare bones but sufficient. The few windows are set high on the wall, with tacky curtains drawn against nighttime's inquisitive eyes. Stacked next to the front door are the boxes that Dad shipped from Dallas via Greyhound Package Express, containing all the office machines and disguises we need to keep us safe, along with the clothes we hadn't taken with us when we split up.

When he met me, Dad had been wearing a wig—short, dark brown hair in an unfashionable cut—and black-rimmed glasses. He'd said the Aunt Mildred wasn't completely retired, but he'd save her for trips to the Department of Motor Vehicles or the county registrar, when a little old lady would get extra courteous service and not raise any alarms. Now, his wig and glasses discarded for the night, his shorn scalp still freaks me out a little.

I don't like the way the men in my life look. It's a constant reminder of our shitty situation. Every once in a while, I catch Dad running a hand over his bald head, and I decide it must be disconcerting to him too. Both he and Logan say that they think my disguise is great, and that I look good, but not like Veronica Mars. I haven't decided if I believe them.

They listen as I tell them the whole thing. Charlene, the college kids, St. Louis and Lynard, Union Station and Navy Pier. Brown Suit Guy and the guy in the blue windbreaker, now identified as Anatoly Ponomarev and lying on a slab in the Chicago morgue, I presume.

I don't say, _I murdered him _or _I shot him in cold blood_.

I say, "I fired three times so I could get the hell out of there...and...and...um, I must have winged him. Kind of a lucky shot. He, um, didn't make it, I guess."

But they get it right away. A shadow passes across Dad's face. He knows what I mean. And Logan, who once upon a time convinced me that I wasn't a killer—I feel his body tighten. Is it my imagination, or does he pull away from me just the smallest amount?

"You said this guy's name was Ponomarev? So it's pretty likely he was with the Russian mob," Dad finally says.

I nod. "Yeah, I think so. They were so goddamned _ruthless_."

"I was so worried when I got your text, honey. I'm proud of you."

_Uh-huh. Proud. Sure._

"It sounds awful," Logan comments.

"What was it like for you guys?" I ask.

Dad shrugs. "The worst part was trying to keep my makeup done without you to help, and shaving my beard every couple hours. And I almost screwed up and went up in the men's room. Twice. I tried not to have any conversations, because you know I'm not that good at a female voice."

"Ha-hah, that's not true."

He chuckles. In an overtly false woman's voice, he says, "Don't you smart mouth me, you whippersnapper."

"Dad, you have no idea how much I wished you were there to help me." He pats my knee again. I look at Logan. "How was it for you?"

"Boring. I put on my usual brooding expression, and everyone left me alone, just like your dad said they would. And Greyhound terminals are the pits. I got here yesterday morning."

I'm suddenly jealous. For days now, I've been picturing him bloodied in a bus station men's room or running for his life from a gunman, and instead he'd been bored. Meanwhile, I'd been fighting to stay alive, running on sheer adrenaline for four days without a break.

"That's— that's good. I was really worried," I finally manage. I have a flash of resentment: once again, the poor little rich boy skates by without any hassles. And then, of course, guilt, because after all _I'm _the reason we're on the lam, and I'm supposed to be trying to be more forgiving toward him.

Dad asks, "You want some dessert? We've got ice cream. We have something to celebrate after all."

"Um. I guess. Well, not really."

He frowns. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Just really tired." I stand up and stretch, looking around the apartment. "What's the plan for sleeping?" I'm sick of being coy about Logan and me. It seems like such bullshit now.

"I'm sorry the apartment's so small. It kind of fell in my lap, and with the handyman position and the low rent—"

I'm betting 'handyman' is a convenient euphemism, and Dad's job is really going to be more like 'janitor'. It's depressing and pathetic to go from sheriff to this. "Absolutely. It was the right call, Dad."

"Maybe later on we can find something bigger," he says. "I thought maybe you could take the bedroom, and Logan and I will sleep on the sofabed. You need your privacy."

The couch looks to be twenty years old, threadbare and lumpy. The fold-out bed is probably a back-killer, one of those torture devices with a metal bar right in the lumbar region. "I think I should take the couch—I bet the mattress on this thing is a joke, and I'm the lightest. You guys can have the bedroom. Maybe we could find a futon at a garage sale or something? Maybe even two small ones so we could each have our own bed. We can afford that, right?"

Dad nods. "Yeah. Good idea."

"I'm thinking of hitting the sack early, if you don't mind. I want to get a jump on finding a job tomorrow. I— Dad, I'm so sorry I had to spend so much money to get here, I really didn't mean to—"

"Veronica! It's fine."

"No, I screwed up. I messed up bad. If I'd been safe like you taught me, I'd have—"

He jumps up and folds me into his arms, like he always used to when I'd skinned my knee or been teased at school. "Shh. Shh."

This is turning into a full-out blubber. I'm such a goddamn _liability_. "The taxi driver can identify me. From the sh-shooting." I hate the way my voice breaks as I talk. "He saw that I was upset, and he heard the gunshots—he just thought they were fireworks, but the police are going to question him and then it's—"

"It's going to be all right, honey. From what you said, the guy sounds like a low-level mobster. The police won't spend much time investigating that—they'll assume it's a hit from a rival gang."

I shout, "You don't know that!"

Dad pulls me onto his lap and cuddles me as I disintegrate into sobs. "You've been through a terrible experience, honey, and you're exhausted. It's okay, it's okay. You're safe now." To Logan, he says, "Get her some warm milk."

Between them, they get me calmed down and tucked into the sofabed for the night. I hear quiet voices murmuring from the bedroom—discussing my fragile state of mind, I presume. Then the light switch is clicked off, and the narrow band of light escaping under the bedroom door disappears. _Thin walls,_ I think. _How the hell are we going to live like this? Making subsistence wages and getting on each others' nerves 24/7?_

I can't sleep. After being on a train for thirty-six of the last forty-eight hours, I can't shake the irrational feeling that the bed is moving. My right hand aches from clenching the Glock for so long, and I notice my forefinger twitching against my thumb, an odd little tic that I've never had before. My fingers don't listen when I order them to stop it.

Every unfamiliar noise in the apartment is magnified: the second hand on the clock clicking, the floor creaking above us, water rumbling through pipes in the walls, a bus on the street outside. All of a sudden, I think I should be able to hear Dad and Logan breathing, and when I strain my ears, there's nothing. So I tiptoe to the door of the bedroom and peek in. Of course they're fine. Of course you can't hear people breathing from the next room. _What the hell, Veronica?_

Back in bed, I review every step of my journey. It's stupid and compulsive, but I come up with at least four scenarios at Navy Pier that would have prevented the shooting. Probably. Even if I'd just _aimed_, instead of firing blindly, that would have...

_You'd be dead right now if you'd taken time to aim,_ I lecture myself. _It was just bad luck that one of the bullets hit him._

I wonder if the guy I'd killed had had a family. Kids, a wife, parents who'd loved him, friends who were going to miss him. Was somebody grieving and planning a funeral, worried about how they were going to pay the mortgage now?

It's weird to think of a heart beating, pumping blood around your body and then...just...stopping. A final weak contraction, a last electrical impulse in your brain, and then you don't ever inhale again. That white light that everyone talks about beckoning you to hurry up.

Putting my fingers on the inside of my wrist, I try to feel my own heart beating. Still going. I'm too fucking aware of my breaths, in, out, my body aching a little with bruises I don't remember getting.

I decide to try to eat something. Even if I don't feel hungry, maybe my body is telling me that I need food and that's why I can't sleep. Tossing off the covers, I walk over to the kitchen area and root around in the refrigerator. There's not much food, and especially not much that appeals. Finally, I make a peanut butter sandwich—sliced on the diagonal, of course—and sit down at the kitchen table. It's wobbly, and I use a folded-up page from a newspaper to prop up the shortest leg. Because, god knows, a rickety table is the most important thing in my life right now.

The table secured to my satisfaction, I return my attention to the sandwich again. And I see what the newspaper had been covering: this week's 'People' magazine, with Logan Echolls the cover story. He's finally managed to drive Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton onto page two. My sandwich forgotten, I flip through the story, which thankfully highlights his lifesaving measures in Arkansas more than his food court shenanigans and probation violations.

The same two photos of Dad and myself that made the Arkansas newspaper are printed in a sidebar, with a throwaway line about 'Logan's companions'. Apparently Dad and I don't rate as much ink as does the bad-boy heir to the Echolls fortune. There are three more photos of Logan accompanying the article, and all the old scurrilous Tinseltown Diaries stories are repeated.

"How's the sandwich?" Logan asks from behind me.

I inhale with a jerk at his voice. "Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry."

"When were you going to tell me about this?" I say, pointing to the magazine.

"Tomorrow. After you got a little rest. We're worried about you." Sitting down at the table, he picks up my sandwich and takes a bite. "Mm, delish."

"It's not delicious, it sucks."

"Stop stealing my lines. I'm the spoiled little rich kid here. Besides, I'm enjoying tasting all of your fine bourgeois cuisine. Mac and cheese from the box is to die for. And your dad promised me a pot roast for Sunday dinner."

"What are we going to do?"

He offers me the sandwich again; when I decline, he takes another bite before replacing it on the plate.

"Logan. What's the plan here?"

"Your dad says I need to stay in the apartment for the near future. No going out at all, even in the skinhead getup. House arrest, without the fancy ankle bracelet. You know, they picked up the story on Entertainment Tonight and TMZ, too."

"How can you be so calm?"

"I've been expecting it. It's my baseline, remember? I grew up with paparazzi lurking at the front gate my whole life. Your dad's right. I've just got to stay hidden until a bigger news story pushes ours off the front page. ...Listen, it's not going to be that bad. I'll be like the butler, and we'll be a wacky sitcom family."

The corners of my mouth twitch up, ever so slightly. I'm a little hungrier all of a sudden, and I grab the sandwich again, finishing it while Logan watches.

"Veronica, if I could have gone through some of that for you, I would have. I'm sorry it was so awful for you."

"I killed a man." It's the first time I've said it aloud.

"I know. But it was you or him."

"That doesn't help."

With his thumb, he caresses the flesh under my eye. "You're exhausted. You've never had dark circles like this."

I avoid his gaze and put my plate in the sink. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not." He shuts off the light and leads me back to the couch.

"Logan—can you lay down with me?" My voice is small and wretched, embarrassingly whiny.

"Just try and stop me." He slides under the covers with me and puts his arms around me. "You're safe now, okay? Try to get some sleep."

"I don't think I've slept more than ten minutes without a nightmare since we left Neptune."

"It's going to get easier, you know."

His arms around me finally stop the illusion of the bed moving—something about tethering me to the world. His hand traces an up-and-down pattern on my back, soothing me, gentling me. Being in his arms is the first thing that's felt familiar since I got here. I murmur, "I'm so tired of thinking."

"You've always been like that, always thinking too much. It's one of the things I love about you, even when you make me nuts."

"You're not disappointed in me?"

"What?" His hand stops caressing me.

"Because of what happened in Chicago. You know, what you said on the roof. That I wasn't, you know, a _killer_. I should've figured another way out of there—"

"You can't be serious—you're torturing yourself over killing a Russian mobster who wanted to gun you down? Veronica! Jesus. I'm fucking proud of you for getting out of there alive!"

My whole body trembles, and I say it. "I was so scared they were going to follow me here. Or they'd capture me and try to torture me into saying where you were. I still feel like I can't breathe—that they're going to crash through the door and start shooting. Oh god!"

"Shh, it's going to be okay. You're here, you're safe. Try not to think about it." His grip tightens on me, almost painfully.

"You don't understand. It was like I couldn't shake them no matter what I did—I did everything right and they still found me. How the hell are we ever going to be safe? And they're _pissed _now, because I got away."

"Veronica, it's all right, we're going to be fine—"

"I just keep thinking what I should have done differently, all the foolish things I've done."

"No. _No_, Veronica. You can't do that. We've got to move ahead and look forward."

"I don't know if I can. God, Logan, I've destroyed everything. What kind of a life is this? Hiding out, half underground, doing shitty jobs and looking over our shoulders every day for the rest of our lives."

He doesn't know what to say to that, because it's true.

I say, "I've never felt like this before. Even when things were shit, I always had something to focus on. Find Lilly's murderer. Find out who raped me. Catch the Hearst rapist. Solve the dean's murder. There's nothing to solve here, there's just looking back and regretting the stupid things I did."

"Stupid things _we_ did."

"Mostly me. I should have listened to you when you told me I was taking too many chances. Logan, I tried to blackmail a judge! I sent Wallace into the Castle, and they shocked him—my best friend, the person I should have been protecting. I even shot a bunch of little kids with a paintball gun, for no reason other than they were smarting off to me. Who does that?"

"Paintball?"

"It was when we were broken up. I think...I think I just wanted to hurt somebody, because I hated the way I felt. And then when the sex video came out, I was ashamed. I was humiliated. It felt..." I shouldn't say it. No good will come of it. "Goddammit, it felt like when I was raped at Shelly's party and all you _fuckers _were calling me a slut. Every bathroom stall at Neptune High had my name on it. 'For a good time, call Ronnie.'" My voice is so bitter I don't recognize it.

Logan recoils like I've actually hit him. "Veronica. I'm so sorry about—"

"Don't say it. I forgave you a long time ago."

"You sure about that?"

A little niggling doubt that I suppress. Cannot, will not let myself think about it. _I need him. I love him. I need him._ It's much more productive to blame Logan's father, for killing Lilly and destroying my family. And Jake Kane, for screwing my mother and lying to my dad. Both of them, along with Cassidy, victim-turned-psychopath, playing their parts in making high school completely fucking miserable. No, there's enough blame to go around. I can give Logan a pass. "I'm sure."

Besides, what's a little high school taunting compared to manslaughter? I pulled a gun, and a man lost his life. Don't tell me there wasn't a choice. I could have shot into the air; I knew there was a chance someone would get hurt.

Because I'd _wanted_ to hurt that guy for chasing me. Just like I'd wanted those kids to feel the sting of a paintball, like I'd wanted Madison to cry over her cubed car (narrowly averted in a fleeting moment of humanity), like I'd wanted Logan to hurt when I broke it off and then kissed Piz in front of him—yeah, I'd wanted him to catch us. I reveled in all their misery. Everyone needed to feel the way _I_ felt.

I've never really put it together like this before, just how out of control I've felt for the last...well, to be honest, since Beaver swan-dived off the roof and half of me wanted to jump with him. I take a shuddering breath. "Logan, it's like I wanted to destroy my life this past year, and I took you guys with me. Damn it all to hell!"

"Shh. Shh. Don't wake up your dad. I don't think he's ready to rubber-stamp us being in bed together. You didn't do this. It just is, and now we've got to make the best of it." He plays with my hair in that delaying way he has, when he's not sure what to say. "Veronica...don't you think what happened in Chicago was a little...I don't know...extreme?"

Of all the things he could say, this particular insight seems radical. It's like psychic whiplash, his words throwing me out of my compulsive thoughts. "What are you talking about?"

"They're being awfully intense about this. I didn't kill Gory. I could see him stalking me in Neptune and breaking my knee cap, maybe even putting a hit on me once I'd been arrested...but a nationwide manhunt for the three of us? Trying to kill you in Chicago? Come on. We're not worth that."

From behind us, Dad says, "He's right." He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. "Are you okay, honey?"

Logan says, "Sorry we woke you." He struggles to sit up and put a few inches between our bodies.

Flipping off the covers, I sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't be mad at him. I couldn't sleep. I keep going over everything that happened."

"I know. That's what happens." There's something in Dad's voice. I know he's had to use his weapon on the job more than once, and I remember the way he'd berated himself after Kendall died in the desert. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but I knew he'd felt responsible for delivering her to Cormac—and for letting Vinnie trick him into leading Liam straight to Kendall's hideout. A cautionary tale, if only I'd paid attention. "Logan's right. Gory's people have expended a lot of resources to find us. Yes, the Russian mob is known to be ruthless, and they don't like to leave witnesses. But Gory's family isn't going to put up with this extreme response over a brawl."

"I don't understand."

"Exactly. There's something going on here that we don't understand. But we're not going to figure it out tonight. Do you think you kids can settle down and get some sleep now? Emphasis on the word 'sleep'. Veronica needs to get her rest." There's a strangely soft tone to Dad's instructions, and I wonder if he wishes that he could still be the one to rock me to sleep. Logan throws off the covers to return to the bedroom, but Dad puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him. "It's okay. Stay here. Just try to get to sleep."

"Um, all right, Mr. Mars," Logan stammers.

"Take care of her, all right? And, uh, Logan? If we're going to be living together like this, I think you should start calling me Keith instead of Mr. Mars. Good night, honey."

Dad hits the light, and Logan takes me into his arms again. "No more thinking, okay?" he whispers.

There are no words between us now: just warmth, gentle skin upon skin, and intermingled exhalations. Muscle fibers relax and synapses shut down for programmed regeneration. The darkness covers me like a blanket.

The journey sloughs off me. _I am here. I made it._

_I am alive._

_I am..._

•••••

I wake up gradually. I'm not thrown out of sleep by the terrible images of a nightmare. It's weird to become conscious without being racked with anxiety.

I prop myself up on an elbow and look at him. He is an immovable form beside me, almost twice my mass. A polygon of sunlight from the window above falls on his chest, a chiaroscuro effect on his sheeted body. His arm is thrown up above his head, careless and relaxed; there's a childlike innocence on his face, with no smart remarks to dispel the image. Fading Sharpie facsimiles of evil and ugliness—I remember the blunt panic I'd felt as I drew the tattoos. They'd probably saved his life, along with that slight bristle of hair on his scalp.

He's a mess. Impulsive and foolish. Immature, and prone to solving his problems with his fists or a bottle of tequila. Somehow he's stumbled through life without killing himself or racking up serious prison time. But when he decides that he loves you? It's forever. His mother, Lilly, me. Dick, too.

Is that what I love about him? The way that _he_ loves _me._That unconditional, epic love that he admits so freely.

_Dangerous territory, Veronica.  
_  
_Well, I definitely _need_ him. And I think I love him. I just can't understand how it always gets so jumbled up in resentment and suspicion and self-righteousness._

I remember worrying about him while we were separated. It was just impulse and instinct, a certainty that somewhere in the world there was somebody that I...that I _loved_. That's the only word for it. _Why is this so hard for me?_

"I thought we said no thinking for you," he mumbles, barely audible. "Come here." Logan pulls me on top of him, his mouth right up against my ear. "Do you want to know how I entertained myself on that bus for two and a half days?"

He adjusts himself slightly so that I can feel his arousal, weighty and firm against my thigh. Lovely memories of morning sex flood my brain—vivid snapshots of contorted positions and impossible exertions, heated flesh and the sound of two bodies working together on a goal as old as time. "We can't," I whisper. "Dad's in the other room, and, you know, the other thing he said—"

His breath tickles my ear. "We'll be careful. _Extra_ careful. You know me, I'm a Boy Scout. Well, at least, I've completed the sex merit badge." His tongue flicks my ear lobe. "Remind you of anything fun? Something you used to enjoy quite a lot, if memory serves."

"Don't," I exhale, but he ignores me, his hand finding the cleft between my ass cheeks. His fingers touch me, a wisp of desire, whispered but persistent through the material of my sleep shorts. I should roll off him, should get dressed and make breakfast, but I sink into his body, my taut muscles loosening for the first time in five days. It doesn't feel bad that he's so horny for me. It's been so long since I've felt good.

_And I love him, right? I need him. I love him. It's not weird to love somebody even though you resent them for having an easier time than you did. I need him._

"We can be quiet. At least I can be quiet. How about you?" His hand insinuates itself under my waistband, stroking that sensitive valley almost casually. He's always adored my ass—I remember text messages about my short skirts and wanting to bite my ass all over, and then squirming in my seat all during Landry's class. And one memorable time, letting him take me from behind in the empty classroom after everyone had left.

He's always loved driving me crazy with gentle strokes. It's like he takes notes on me and studies them—Professor Echolls, Advanced Topics in Women's Sexuality. He has a dangerous competence with his hands, responding to my helpless cues to bring me to the edge and then keep me there until I beg for release. There's no thinking when those hands are on my body, no thinking at all, and that's really dangerous. Slender fingers brushing over sensitive skin, erasing all my inhibitions. And I love it. I love that 'no thinking'.

_I love him. I need him. It's going to be different this time. I love it, I mean, him._

Just when I'm about to scream at his patience, he dips lower, between my legs, and the little that's left of my puritanical resolutions is completely lost. _Dammit._ I hate it when he controls me like this.

_Sort of. Well. Not really._

I suppress a groan and whisper, "You're cruel." It's an insistent pressure on my core now, demanding my attention. His eyes are locked on mine, the pupils dilated with arousal. _Bedroom eyes,_ I think, _this is what they mean._

He's always been able to talk you into bed, hasn't he?

I let out a little gasp when his finger slides into me, and he puts his other hand over my mouth. "Shh. Veronica, you've got to try to be quiet." His finger stills, and _fuck_, I can't stand it—I wriggle against his hardness. Logan's palm suffocates my helpless moan, and I tell my stupid conscience to shut the fuck up and let me have some fun. My legs spread, and I press my pelvis into him with a shudder. It's been _so_ long. _So long. _Months since we were together.

He lets my mouth go and kisses me, his tongue pressing for entrance as his finger dips inside me. Another groan escapes my lips despite my efforts to be silent. "Please, Logan, Dad will hear us."

His smile is wicked and amused. Logan whispers, "I think he already left."

Dislodging myself from him with a gasp, I jump up from the bed. The bedroom door is ajar and the room beyond unoccupied. Spotting a folded sheet of paper on the kitchen table, I walk over to read it. _'Veronica, please take it easy today—plenty to time to job hunt tomorrow. Corn flakes in the cupboard and eggs in the fridge. I want to talk about what happened in Chicago. Home around 1pm.'  
_  
"You knew he'd already left?" I say in a normal tone, approaching the sofabed.

He scoots up a little and laces his fingers behind his head. "He starts working around the apartment complex at 7am." Logan's head motions toward the clock: 7:20am.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I just did!"

"You bastard. 'You've got to try to be quiet,'" I say, mockingly.

"Like you didn't think it was hot!"

I grab the pillow and smack him hard in the chest. He's completely unprepared, with his arms still behind his head, and I get in a good shot.

"Oh, you're gonna get it." Logan throws off the sheet and chases me. I dart around the couch, sticking my tongue out at him. He almost snares me, but I slip out of his grasp and run for the kitchen area. It's absurd—a cartoonish chase in the tiny apartment—and with a few long steps he's caught up to me and backed me up against the refrigerator. He snorts at my pretend panic, and throws me over his shoulder and carries me to the bed.

I'm laughing. I haven't laughed in so long. It feels rusty and creaky, and maybe a little forbidden. It feels _good_.

He puts me down on my back and crawls on top of me, grabbing my wrists with one hand and letting his weight trap the rest of me. Logan caresses my cheek. "I promise I'm going to make you laugh like this every day. Even if I have to tickle you to do it," he says. Lifting my shirt, he blows a raspberry on my stomach. I completely lose it, giggling breathlessly. He wiggles his eyebrows and splays his fingers on my ribs, threatening to tickle me.

"No, please, no! No tickling!"

His voice suddenly turns gravelly. "Then let me love you. God, Veronica. I've missed you so much. We can just fool around a little bit—I promise we'll be careful."

He's stroking my hair and kissing my neck, and it's so tempting to just rip my clothes off and _do it_, for god's sake. I struggle to remember why it is that we're supposed to be going slow, why we need to be careful. This is the part of a relationship that we're actually good at. I remember the last time we got back together we didn't say more than five words to each other before the next morning, unless you count "Feels so good" and "Oh, baby" as conversation. I never did find my bra that night.

_Maybe you didn't talk because sex is all you have. You love him because he loves you, and you're just a narcissist, lapping up all the adoration. Relationships aren't supposed to be this hard. You screwed it up last time obsessing about Madison—how are you gonna screw it up this time, and what the hell do you do when it's three people on the lam and two of them aren't speaking?_

"Hey...what are you thinking about?" he whispers. "Are you okay? You zoned out on me." Logan strokes my stomach under my shirt, and it feels very nice. It almost feels nice enough to shut up the voices in my head.

"I was thinking about the last time we got back together."

He waits for me to explain.

I struggle to put it in words. "Just...how easy it was for us to screw it all up. Well, for _me _to screw it up. It just kind of makes me nervous, with the three of us—what did you call it? Oh yeah, a wacky sitcom family. A wacky sitcom family on the lam."

He appears to be thinking of a response, and then he says, "Hold on. I'll be right back."

He reappears after a couple minutes and puts two boxes on the bed. Extra-strength Trojans, 'guaranteed not to break'. I feel a little sick, and start to speak, but he puts a finger on my lips to silence me. "I want to tell you something. I bought these somewhere in Bumfuck, Georgia, because I love you and I'd been fantasizing about you for twenty hours straight. And if you ever decide to go to bed with me again, it's going to be careful. As careful as it can be. I'll double-bag if you want. Are you still on the pill?"

I nod, and try to speak again, but he says, "Let me talk. A condom and the pill—that's pretty safe, right? But you don't have to have sex with me. I know it's not just the pregnancy thing. I don't want this to blow up either, or for it to get weird with your dad. He's just starting to like me. We watched the ballgame last night. It was cool. _He's _cool. He's trying with me for the first time. But Veronica, I miss you. I miss making love to you. I'm horny all the time, and I can't help thinking about it. I'm sorry that I'm a giant walking boner. But I swear I'm not going to push you. You say 'no', and we stop."

"Actually, I think using two condoms is worse than just one. Apparently friction, rubber against rubber, not a good combo." I shrug.

"Well, then, Dick is totally screwed."

"In more ways than one." He looks at me, expectant, all earnest and devoted—what every girl should want. Except it's blown up in our faces three times now. _What the hell is wrong with us? What the hell is wrong with me? _I say, "I wish they made condoms for psychological problems."

"You know, I believe in 'us'. No matter how many times we broke up, in the future I always saw you and me together."

_Sure, you say that now. What was that crap about 'unbearable pain' last fall?_

He must see the doubt on my face, because he says, "We'll figure it out. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you about having sex. I know you're upset about what happened in Chicago."

"Yeah. Logan, I—" I want to say, _thanks for holding me last night, I need you, I love you, but I'm a lunatic right now, I want to make love to you too, I want this to work as much as you do._ But the words stick in my throat, and I just say, "We'll figure it out. You weren't pressuring me. I— It felt good. I'm just...like you said, I'm upset about what happened in Chicago."

"If we put an ice pack on my crotch, I could probably stand to cuddle you without mauling you." He smiles at me, that dazzling Echolls smile that made his father a Hollywood star.

"Hah. You must not love me very much if a mere ice pack would slow you down. And besides, I'm not really in the mood to torture your manparts today. Maybe a little breakfast instead?"

And it feels okay to laugh a little with each other. We're pretty okay, for now.

_Love takes time, right?_


	18. Chapter 18: Phantasm

**TITLE:** Phantasm (18/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,577**  
RATING:** PG13/R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. **  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** One of the difficulties in writing a WIP is that a reader's sense of time gets distorted when real time passes between chapter updates.

If you count the Neptune special election day as Day One, we are now on Day Ten. Depending on when you think the election happened, in this story, we are sometime in May, possibly early June (MarsInvestigations·net places "Weevils Wobble" and "The Bitch Is Back" in May 2007). There's no mention of final exams in either of those episodes, so it's before the end of the term, which to my mind puts the election on either May 8, 15 or 22, and May 15 seems most likely (and was an actual special election that year in California for State Assembly).

The most important thing is to realize that it's only been ten days; Veronica's still upset about the election, etc., and all three of them are exhausted and stressed. In particular, it's not very long for Logan and Veronica to be trying again at a relationship.

I did previously use an external date in this story: Saturday, May 26, 2007, the date that Lindsay Lohan ran her vehicle up over the curb and got a DUI, which coincides with Day Two or Day Three of my story. As you may recall, the press coverage on Lindsay was necessary to give a reason why the paparazzi hadn't yet picked up the story on Logan. So Day Ten would then be approx. Mon. June 4.

However, I must ask for your indulgence. Because of plotting in upcoming chapters, it will be necessary to fudge the dates a little earlier than this, and I'll need to use the election date May 15 (which is more sensible anyways). That makes Day Ten to be May 24. Only my nitpickers and Lindsay's PR people will care about this, anyway. _Mea culpa_ on the DUI date.

This story is intended to be pretty much canonical. One area where I'm asking you to suspend a tiny bit of canon is my idea that Logan was secretly trying hard to get his grades up, to comply with the terms of the probation that I inserted into a little hole in canon. Season 3 shows Logan struggling mightily with attendance and his grades; let's assume for my story that we weren't seeing the whole picture. Although old habits die hard, Logan was trying to do better, when he wasn't being totally emo, and he managed to satisfy the court's requirements, up until the day he fled Neptune.

When I say canonical, keep in mind that the characters in this story might not have every bit of knowledge that a viewer has. Just because a character contradicts a fact you know as a viewer does not mean that I am crossing over into an alternate universe; it just means that they don't know what you know. And perhaps I've found a brand new plot hole to exploit. Or maybe not.

* * *

_Last time in Precipitation: Veronica finally makes it to Chapel Hill and reunites with Logan and her dad. The apartment is dismal and small, and her dad has taken a position as handyman/janitor for the apartment complex. She discovers that the paparazzi have gotten wind of Logan's difficulties, and he's featured in the latest issue of People magazine. Both Logan and Keith agree that Veronica's pursuers seem more intense than the situation warrants._

_She's unable to sleep, obsessing about what happened in Chicago. Logan ends up rocking her to sleep, with Keith's approval. The next day, Logan tries to initiate an intimate moment, but Veronica is tense and uncertain. She's unable to stop thinking about everything that's bothering her, including her own difficulties with maintaining a healthy relationship, and they agree to take it slow._

* * *

After Dad gets off work and we have lunch, the three of us sit down to talk. I review what happened in St. Louis and Chicago again, with all the details that I'd noticed about my pursuers. Then Dad asks me to go over everything that I'd found during my investigation of the sex video.

We hadn't had the time to look at the contents of the copied hard drive before we left Neptune, and since then we've been running constantly, so it's the first time Dad's looked at it. He boots up our laptop, connects the hard drive, and scrolls through the names in the directory. Each file is named according to the convention of pledge year, then last name/first name of the candidate. Noting the file extensions, he comments, "Video from 1978 on. Audio from 1949 to 1977. And transcripts from 1929 to 1948. There's a lot of famous names on this list. How many of these confessions did you look at?"

"Gory, Jake Kane, a few more—names that I recognized. Enough so I could convince Jake I'd cracked the drive. I think...Gabe Huntley and Gerald Cummings. Maybe a couple others? "

"As in Gerald Cummings, the senator from Mississippi?" Logan asks.

"As in Gerald Cummings, who was just a fresh-faced campaign worker in 1968. He worked for the George Wallace for President Campaign and somehow made all the ballot boxes from poor neighborhoods in southern Georgia disappear. Governor Wallace carried the state."

It feels good to discuss this, to feel competent and in control again, to push my brain to seek a solution. I know how to do this.

Dad drums his fingers on the table. "Once you and Mac cracked the encryption on the hard drive, tell me exactly what you did."

"I made two copies. One we gave to that attorney back in Neptune before we left town, and this is the other one." We hadn't wanted to jeopardize Cliff by getting him involved. Since Gory's lawyer had visited Cliff shortly after we left town, it had obviously been the right call to use an attorney we'd never dealt with before. I point at the hard drive, a portable 80 GB device that I'd wiped and used to save the data. "This is the only other copy. Before I went to see Jake, I decided to strike a blow for feminism and printed a list of all the names. I gave it to Nish Sweeney, the girl who ran 'Take Back the Night' at Hearst."

"A blow for feminism? What does Nish have to do with The Castle?" Dad asks.

"She's been investigating them for a couple years. Nish told me there's a group of women who tried to sue the Castle for gender discrimination, but they don't know who to sue. So I'm assuming Nish is planning to give that list of Castle members to those women, or maybe write a series of exposés. But she hadn't done anything with it before we left, as far as I know."

Dad looks thoughtful. "It takes years to get a class action lawsuit filed and certified by the court, if they're even successful. And it's likely that there are judges and D.A.s on that list. It'll be pretty easy for The Castle to quash a suit like that. You gave her just the names, Veronica?"

"Just the names. It was obvious when we looked at Gory's confession that just viewing the files themselves could be dangerous."

"Show me Gory's confession again."

Dad watches the video three times. After the last time through, he stands up, stretching, and paces around the room before speaking. "It's almost certainly not admissible, assuming Gory's family has a halfway decent attorney. Sure, it's damaging, and if the Feds could identify the mountain cabin that Gory's talking about, they could drag the lake for bodies, or what's left of them. But with the hard drive out of Jake Kane's possession for a period of time, it would be easy for an attorney to claim that the confession had been doctored, and it's not likely that there's enough physical evidence to convict if the bodies have decomposed."

Logan says, "Maybe there's something else on the hard drive. Something to do with Jake Kane and Gory."

"What are you thinking?" I ask him.

"Jake Kane is someone who has the financial resources to search for us nationwide. Why is he so buddy-buddy with a mobster anyway?"

I muse, "Maybe it _is_ Jake who's behind this—Gory supplies the manpower, but Jake's the one paying the bills."

Dad doesn't look convinced. Before he can answer me, the phone rings and interrupts him. It's ridiculous, but I'm startled, and sweat starts pouring from my armpits, with my heart rate accelerating quickly. Dad walks over and takes the call. "Hello?...Oh hi there, Mrs. Prescott...can you turn the water off with the shutoff valve behind the toilet?" He listens for a minute, then starts explaining where the valve is located and how to work it.

I try to dismiss my adrenaline rush and watch him talking on the phone. Dad's wearing khakis and a blue uniform shirt with 'Kingswood Apartments' embroidered on the pocket. There's a smudge of grease on his shirt sleeve, and the knuckles on his right hand look scraped. He looks tired and far older than 45, but he's still my dad, still smart and resourceful, still the best dad in the world.

"...Okay, I'll hold on while you try the valve." Dad turns to us. With his hand covering the mouthpiece, he says, "I know it's easy to think that Jake Kane is evil. But you really think he'd send mobsters across the country to gun us down?"

"A man who'd pay off Abel Koontz to protect his son from a murder charge is capable of a lot of things," I point out. "And remember how the Kanes barely got a slap on the wrist for that? It sure seemed like the fix was in—"

Dad puts up a finger and I stop talking. "Good job, Mrs. Prescott, I'll be right over to fix your toilet. Give me about fifteen minutes." He hangs up and sits down with us again. "Crisis averted, temporarily. I agree that Jake's proven that he'll do almost anything, given enough motivation. But why would Jake be trying to kill us, Veronica? What purpose would that serve?"

It feels really good to shift some of the blame onto our old nemesis. "Maybe there's something criminal on the hard drive that Jake doesn't want people to know about. Maybe something that would destroy Kane Software or give Celeste evidence to get a favorable divorce settlement. Follow the money, that's what you always say."

Dad sighs. "I don't think you're on the right track with this. But perhaps while Logan is stuck here in the apartment he could—"

"Oh no," Logan says.

"Oh yes. I think you should transcribe all the confessions. It won't take long for us to skim the old transcriptions, but I have a feeling if there's something to be found, it's in the most recent confessions, in the videos from the last decade. You should start with this year's pledges and work backwards."

"You need something to do, anyways," I say. "You can't just hide out here all day long, Logan."

"I've got my stories. And it's getting a little old the way you two never appreciate everything I do around here. Do you think the cooking and cleaning will take care of themselves?"

I scoff. "You swept the kitchen floor this morning after you poured me a bowl of corn flakes and managed to dump half the box on the floor."

Dad adds, "And I had to teach you how to make the coffee yesterday."

"Like I said, I'm _so _not appreciated by you guys."

Dad says, "Okay, you're appreciated. How about today, while Veronica and I go grocery shopping, you clean the bathroom for a little extra appreciation? And then tomorrow, you can start on your little project while I'm at work and Veronica's job hunting."

"Damn it. What'd you say, thirty years of video, and thirty of audio? How long's that going to take me?" Logan sighs and tries to ruffle his hair, but his hand stops short at the bristle on his scalp.

"You always wanted to help with all the glamorous P.I. stuff," I remind him. "This is P.I. work at its finest. Data analysis. You could probably get two or three years done every day, ten candidates per year. Think of it this way—we're trusting you to do a good job on this."

"Great." Logan's voice is sarcastic, but he smiles just enough that I see that he's actually pleased we've trusted him with the job.

•••••

We spend the evening creating a fake resume for me, complete with made-up references with phone numbers that match three of our prepaid phones. We line up the phones on the kitchen counter with a script for Logan to follow if someone checks up on me. Dad turns the TV on to an Orioles game, and he and Logan settle into the easy camaraderie of men bonding over baseball.

I try to watch the game as well, but I keep thinking about Jake Kane and his anger—and maybe a little fear—when I'd proved to him that I had cracked his precious hard drive.

Duncan had told me that his father had changed after Aaron's arrest. Something had broken in him when he found out his daughter had been playing a very dangerous game with her boyfriend's famous father, and that Jake had been completely wrong about Duncan.

Most men would be relieved to find out that their son hadn't murdered their daughter, but Duncan had told me that his father was unrelentingly bitter about everything and cold toward Duncan, as if it was somehow Duncan's fault that Lilly had slept with Aaron. Or, in Celeste's words, that Lilly had allowed herself to be manipulated by 'that man'.

_Right, like Lilly ever did anything that she didn't want to._

And Jake had always been a complete son of a bitch to me. You'd have thought that he would have been nicer to the girl who could have been his daughter. I guess I was the bad seed that corrupted his true children. I wonder, like I always do, if he'd ever loved Mom, and what the hell she'd ever seen in him.

I imagine Jake ordering Gory to kill me. How would that have gone? "Gory, Veronica Mars has interfered in my life for the last time. I want her dead. And I want her to suffer."

_Jesus, Veronica._ I try to reconcile the lurid thought with 'Mr. Kane', Lilly's dad, the man who'd told us to get out of the pool and get ready for dinner when I was fourteen. He'd never exactly been _nice _to me, but he'd at least been civil. And now I'm wondering if he'd ordered a hit on me?

I go to the kitchen for a glass of water, and Dad walks over with me. Leaning on the counter, he asks, "What's going on? You're awfully quiet."

"Just thinking about Jake Kane. He's kind of a formidable enemy, you know? More money than God and bitter about everything."

"I've been thinking about him, too. Remember how Lamb pinned Aaron's murder on a deranged fan? The woman who threw herself off the Coronado after she confessed to the murder in a YouTube video."

"Shh." I look over at Logan, still absorbed in the baseball game. "He gets upset when you talk about it. Of course I remember. What about it?"

"Lamb got a new car right around that time. A Corvette, a really nice model, loaded with every option. Sacks mentioned it. He said it was weird—Lamb was always short of money, and then suddenly Don showed up with that car and a few days later the Echolls murder was officially closed."

"What are you saying?"

Dad leans closer and keeps his voice low. "What if Jake paid Lamb to look the other way and not investigate? Aaron's death looked a lot like a mob hit."

"You're saying, what? Jake inducts Gory into The Castle, and then he hires him to avenge his daughter when Aaron was acquitted?"

"Plausible deniability, Veronica. Jake and Celeste were at a celebrity function that night, where hundreds of people would see them."

I sigh. "I always figured it was Clarence Wiedman, doing Jake's dirty work as usual."

"Wiedman had an alibi too. I checked—it was in the files at the sheriff's department. A good alibi, Veronica."

"I know we have to be careful about using the Internet, but, Dad, there's no way we're going to figure this out without—"

"Veronica, you know all it would take would be one click on a honeytrap, and they'd have our approximate location."

Honeytraps: we used to set up fake web sites or spoofed Facebook profiles to lure in bail jumpers who just couldn't resist reading news articles about their crimes or the family they'd left behind. As soon as someone clicked anywhere on the page, we'd have their IP address. And then Dad would have an ISP location from which to start his searching. "Dad, I'm not going to click on a honeytrap."

"Really. You think Jake Kane, one of the most brilliant computer programmers of our generation, can't devise something to lure you in? And what about Vinnie? If he's serious about catching us, don't you think he'll be using Google Analytics to see who's accessing the Neptune Register archives? A sudden spike in traffic from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and he alerts the local cops to watch out for us. Right now we're safe here. We don't have to figure this out. No Internet, Veronica."

"All right, all right, you made your point." I nod my head toward Logan. "So why is he transcribing—"

"He needs a project. And...maybe he'll find something, and then we'll figure out our next move. I do think we're missing something important. But no Internet." I can't hold back a sigh, and he adds, "For now, Veronica. We can revisit it once Logan's looked through the whole hard drive. We're safe, unless we do something stupid to draw attention to ourselves."

"But Dad, we could get a prepaid cellular modem, and I could use Tor to mask our IP addr—"

"It's not worth the risk. No investigating, Veronica."

Dad goes back out to the couch and the ballgame, and I sip my water, thinking about our conversation. Logan's not the only one who needs a project. And I realize that for a second there I'd thought that we were going to find a solution, that we were going to find a way to get our old lives back.

Hope is the cruelest motherfucker of all.

•••••

...The park is dark, with twilight descending fast. I see the gazebo ahead of me, and I run into it at full speed, the two men pursuing me relentlessly. The stone pillars flash by, but the exit doesn't seem to get any closer. I speed up and pull the Glock out of my waistband. My breath sounds are loud, too loud. The exit is suddenly bathed with light, and I flinch. Something hits my arm, and I drop the Glock. I'm tackled from behind and thrown to the ground. A curtain of black takes over my consciousness.

And then I'm in a room, arms and legs handcuffed to a chair. Gory and me, facing off under a bright overhead lamp, just like a clichéd interrogation scene. The rest of the room is devoid of light, with unknowable dimensions. _How long was I out? Where am I?_ The light hurts my eyes and I have a pounding headache.

I squint, trying to discern my surroundings. Brittle silence, palpable on my eardrums, like a plane descending too fast. A disturbing, primal odor—my sweat and, _oh god_, I've peed myself. Humiliation. Pain. Bruises and scrapes I don't remember getting. The harsh bite of unrelenting metal handcuffs and my limbs screaming already from confinement. Dread seeps into my nerve endings, muscles twitchy and skin crawling with fear._  
_  
Gory speaks. "Well...Pom-pom. We meet again."

"Do you think we could dispense with the cheesy Cold War dialogue?" False bravado. I _know_ he's going to hurt me, and I _know_ I'm going to break.

"What did you do with the hard drive?"

"I gave it back to Jake Kane."

"That's a lie. We know you made a copy. Where's Logan Echolls? Where's your father?"

"I don't know. We split up."

"Bullshit." Gory waits. I squirm under his stare. At last he says, "I have no patience for this. I mean, if I'd met you in a bar or at a party, I would have had you on your back in an hour. But that's an hour of my life I would have never had back. And you know what you should do? Just lay back and enjoy it." He motions with his hand, and a light illuminates a metal table behind him.

"How very _deus ex machina _of you," I snipe.

A voice from the inky periphery of the room speaks. "Stop wasting time and get on with it."

"Mr. Kane? Please help me!"

Brown Suit Guy and his two companions from Chicago step into the light and begin unlocking the cuffs on my arms and legs. The guy in the blue windbreaker is oozing blood from his abdomen, and he twists my arm viciously as they haul me toward the table. "Shouldn't have shot me, you bitch."

I kick and scream, but each man is twice as big as me, and my efforts don't slow them down at all. Brown Suit Guy grabs me around the neck, his hands tightening until my vision gets fuzzy around the edges. I sag, and they lift me carelessly onto the table. It's like I'm a bag of garbage to them, a nuisance, a disgusting, nauseating thing that needs to be taken care of. I'm battered and bruised as my body makes contact with the table's sharp edges, and my head clunks ruthlessly onto cold steel.

Jake walks into the light. He addresses Gory and ignores me. "Gorya, you told me that you had the only copy. You've got to fix this. You know what you have to do."

The men pull my limbs taut, holding me down on the frigid metal table. Shivering, I realize that all my clothes have disappeared. "Mr. Kane, please! You thought I was your _daughter_! How could you do this to me?"

"I'm afraid it's a little too late for that, Veronica. You know what we want." Jake turns and walks away, and Gory drops his towel and begins fondling himself...

I sit up, panting. I don't know where I am. Nothing's familiar._ They're here, they're here somewhere. Where the fuck am I? _My chest feels like it's been crushed by a concrete block. Every nerve ending is firing. I'm shaking, shivering, panic running icy fingers up my spine into my amygdala. _I've got to get out of here! They're coming for me!_ I know it's not true, but I can't breathe and it's too fucking possible and I'm certain that _somehow _they followed me here.

And then I find myself in the bathroom, curled into a tight ball in the tub, with no memory of getting here. I rock forward and back, my breaths too fast, too fucking fast, muscles cramped from tension. _No light. No light. I don't want the light._

"Veronica?"

I don't recognize the voice.

"Veronica, are you okay?"

I hear the knob rattle, and the door opens. The light switches on, and I gasp, squinting against the brightness. It's Logan. _What the hell is he doing here?_ I screw my eyes shut and hunch even tighter, my chin to my knees._ This isn't real._

The light switches off, and I feel movement in the air. Then he's in the tub with me, surrounding me with his arms. He lets me sway against him, my body beyond my control. With a great shudder, I suck in oxygen, and I hear him whisper, _It's okay, it's okay._

It is real. This bathroom is real. This man holding onto me is real.

Here's what is true: I killed a man. Mercer was going to rape me, but he didn't. And Beaver...did what he did. I'm with Dad and Logan in North Carolina. My dad is my dad. Here's what isn't true: Gory and Jake aren't here. Brown Suit Guy didn't follow me. _I think._

Here's what I don't know: Did Jake Kane assassinate Logan's dad? Is Jake in bed with the mob? Does he hate me enough to kill me?

When I awaken again, the bathroom is subtly lit by daylight from the tiny window. I don't remember falling asleep. At some point in the night, Logan put a couple pillows in the tub, and he's sleeping, his arms protectively encircling me.

I sit up, and he wakes up immediately. "Let's go back to our beds," I suggest.

"You sure you're okay?"

_No. I'm not okay. _"Just a terrible nightmare."

"You sure you don't want me to stay with you?"

I shake my head. "No. I— I don't want Dad to know I freaked out."

"Are you going to tell me what you were dreaming about?"

"Maybe. I think I need to process it."

But the truth is I don't think I'll ever make sense of that dream.


	19. Chapter 19: Pendulum

**TITLE:** Pendulum (19/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 6,931**  
RATING:** R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing. Adult content.**  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Last time in Precipitation: Logan, Veronica, and her dad take another look at their copy of The Castle hard drive in an attempt to figure out why the Russian mafia pursued Veronica so relentlessly in Chicago.__ They consider the theory that Jake Kane is involved._ Logan is assigned the task of transcribing all the recent audio and video confessions while he is stuck hiding in the apartment. Keith forbids Veronica from researching on the Internet.

_Veronica has a terrible nightmare: Gory, with Jake Kane egging him on, threatens to rape her to force her to reveal the location of her copy of the hard drive. Veronica wakes up, disoriented and terrified, and hides in the bathroom. Logan hears her and goes to her, but her dad isn't aware of her distress._

* * *

We settle into our new life. I strike out at all the pizza parlors and diners, but, after three days of pounding the pavement, I spot someone shoplifting at a J. Crew clothing store and notify the manager. And that's how I get my excellent job folding T-shirts and advising customers that those capris definitely do not make them look fat. The manager loves me because I made a couple suggestions how to decrease store losses from theft, and I'm also a surprisingly effective salesperson with middle-aged male customers. Logan says I could get promoted to store manager within a week if I'd wear a Catholic schoolgirl outfit.

Dad's disposed of the Glock handgun somewhere so the shooting in Chicago will hopefully never be tied to me, at least not forensically. I've taken the Walther that Logan had until Dad can procure another weapon for me.

I miss the Glock. The Walther feels strange under my fingers when I touch it in my bag as I ride the 'F' bus to the shopping center for my shift. Chapel Hill is really civilized; traffic is reasonable, the weather is pleasant, the streets are tree-lined, and the people are nice. The UNC campus is on summer session now, and I wonder how much it's going to needle me when classes start up in the fall. Store manager at J. Crew is probably going to be the best I can do for a career—it's not quite Special Agent Mars, is it?

I try not to think about it.

Logan gets about fifteen to twenty confessions transcribed per day before he starts to go crazy. It's not easy for him to sit inside when it's sunny out and every molecule in his body is telling him to go surfing. And it doesn't help that we're so close to Cape Hatteras and its 'gnarly' waves.

The confessions are lurid but not assassination-worthy. An SAT cheating ring and more than a few hit-and-runs, usually involving alcohol. A high school prank gone wrong when a chemistry teacher's slashed tire led to a fatal accident, and a hateful boy who enjoyed kidnapping and killing cats. There was a particularly repulsive account of a boy who'd roofied girls and purposely gave them herpes, and plenty of sad tales of tawdry circumstance or reckless misbehavior. Some of the pledges seem evil and others just caught up in bad luck and worse decisions.

Logan starts scoring the videos by the degree of contrition, from zero for sociopaths to five for the ones who actually regret their actions. There are a lot of zeros.

Dad and I review Logan's transcriptions every night and flag the ones that seem like they might be important. It still feels like we're missing something. I've never been a big believer in man's essential humanity, but as the famous names accumulate, even I'm shaken by the foibles of men in powerful positions.

At night, Logan waits for Dad to fall asleep before sneaking into my sofabed and holding me so I can fall asleep. He hasn't tried to make love to me again—waiting for me to make the first move, I guess. Almost every night, he shakes me awake, my palms sweaty and my heart pounding, from a rerun of my interrogation nightmare.

_Let's be honest, Veronica. Your rape nightmare._

I still can't talk about it, and I know it worries him.

I see Logan massaging himself in the mornings when he thinks I'm not looking. It's not easy for him to lie close to me every night, and I know I need to let him touch me sooner rather than later. But in the meantime I can't bear to sleep alone.

Need, need, need. It's a lousy basis for a relationship.

I don't know if Dad suspects that we're sleeping together. I think he's just glad that I haven't brought it up again about investigating Jake and the Sorokins to try to get our lives back.

Except he doesn't know about the USB prepaid modem I bought yesterday. I stopped in the library and reviewed the protocols for using Tor to hide my tracks as I surf the net. Dad's still stuck in the typewriter age in some ways, and I know that he doesn't understand much about computer hacking or IP anonymizer programs. Still, I recognize that Jake Kane is a formidable intellect, and I'm not going to underestimate his abilities.

I'm not sure Logan would approve of this plan either, so I haven't told him. I'm not sure how I'm going to do this when he's stuck in the apartment all day. He's putting on a front of being at peace with this new life of ours. I check out novels from the library for him, and he whips through them in a day.

At night, we pick a stupid B-movie to mock or watch a ballgame—Logan rooting for the Nationals and Dad for the Braves. Maybe we play a little Monopoly or Scrabble, games that I'd picked up for a dollar each at a garage sale. We never watch private eye movies or CSI. Sci-fi is always safe.

I'd found a set of free weights at that same garage sale, and all three of us use them, with a tacit acknowledgment that we need to stay strong...just in case. One day, Dad showed up with a lightweight Ruger .38 Special with an ankle holster, and now both Dad and I have started jogging every day, with the tiny handgun strapped on.

I see the look of jealousy in Logan's eyes when one of us returns home from a run, and I know we've got to find a way to get him out of the apartment soon. The fake tattoos have faded, and his hair is about a quarter inch long. There's a bristly sensation if I happen to touch his head when we're snuggled in bed. I don't tell him that it reminds me of how my scalp felt after Moe shaved off a chunk of my hair, but he senses that something about his hair bothers me. Logan's letting his beard grow, too; he hasn't said anything but I think he's hoping a beard might be enough to have a little bit of a life again.

Here's a secret. I don't even want to admit it to myself—it's vile and selfish when you consider that this is all my fault. But sometimes I like going to work just to get away from him for a little while. Just over two and a half weeks since we left Neptune, and already I'm chafing.

Like I said, I'm responsible for this mess, so I suck it up. But I have to find a way to fix this, somehow—this holding pattern, this quicksand of a life.

Sometimes I squint my eyes and pretend we're just hanging out at the old Sunset Cliffs apartment. Tomorrow I'll be packing for my summer internship at the FBI. Logan's skin has turned that golden brown it gets in the summer from long hours of surfing. Dad's still the sheriff, and all's right with the world.

•••••

One night, he kisses me, with an urgency like the old days. "I love you, you know," he murmurs.

"I know." And I'm supposed to say it back. And I do love him. What's my fucking problem here? I spent the whole time on the bus wishing I could be with him. "I, um, I love you too."

He snorts gently. "That's my girl. You're a veritable Hallmark card of sentiment."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Maybe."

"When did you know? That you loved me." I snuggle closer and relax into his chest.

"This is one of your trick questions. Where nothing I say will be right."

"Come on, there's no wrong answer."

"I knew...when I saw you with that cop at the eighties dance, after we found Trina impersonating my mom. You know, I was so fucked up about my mom, but I still couldn't stand seeing you with him. I remember having the dry heaves for the next twenty-four hours, and all I could think about was killing that guy."

"Good plan. That's usually an excellent way to win a girl's heart, to kill a cop."

"I know, right? Way better than a dozen roses. ...And?" he asks.

"What?"

"You're supposed to tell me... You know, when _you_ knew. God, you suck at this romantic crap."

"Yeah, I really do. I guess...on the roof. You were the one person in the world that I knew would come. The one person I wanted to come."

"Thanks for putting me in danger, Mars."

"Anytime, Echolls."

•••••

The next day, Logan and I are sitting together after breakfast. Morning is our best opportunity for privacy, when Dad's at work in the apartment complex and before I have to be at the store. And I've decided that it's time.

"See, here's the thing."

"Yeah?"

"I...um...I know it's irrational. My nightmare."

He stays silent and threads his fingers with mine.

"Okay, here goes. ...In my dream, they catch me, and Gory wants to...ah, crap, I can't say it. Dammit. I hate this."

"Veronica, it's okay. I'm right here."

A slow inhale and exhale, and then I say it. "Gory's about to— to _rape_ me, to try to force me to tell him where the copy of the hard drive is."

Pressure from his fingers. "It's all right, it's just a dream."

It's _not_ all right. A flash of anger—_what does Logan know about waking up with your underwear gone? And why didn't he, why did he—_ I push it down, way, way down, because I love him, right?...I need him. _Need. Anger. No, need._ "In the dream, Jake Kane is egging Gory on, and I'm begging Jake to help me."

_Egging them on. Blurry stars, the hard plastic of a chaise longue, and my muscles refusing to cooperate. The nauseating smell of tequila. Later, Dick with his hands all over me...was Logan watching? Cheering him on? No. Logan didn't, no, he wouldn't...he'd left by then, he said._

Maybe he did watch. Note to self: check timeline. _No. Focus. This is about your nightmare, and Logan's right here. You need him. He loves you. You need him. You've forgiven him._

"Jesus, Veronica! Jake was egging Gory on?" His hand crushes mine.

I'm sparing him the details because the Cliff Notes version is bad enough. And I don't want him to know _everything._ As I talk, I let my eyes unfocus so I can't see his expression. "It's stupid. In the dream, Gory says some of the things that Mercer said to me. It's my brain addling everything together. And at the end, he— he drops the towel he's wearing, just like— Um. When I first confronted Gory in his dorm room back at Hearst, he was coming from the shower, and, you know, he tried to screw with my head by dropping his towel."

"What a prick."

_Ba-dump-bump. Let's joke about it, shall we? _"Yeah. Good one." I try to smile, and it feels like my face is breaking.

"I didn't mean that. What I meant was..."

"It's okay, I know what you meant."

Logan frowns. "Maybe talking about it is good?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Jake Kane was actually ordering Gory to, um, hurt you?"

_Just say it._ I nod, and swallow the little bit of vomit tickling the back of my throat.

His voice is cautious, tentative. "Did you ever talk to anyone about Mercer? It must have been really terrifying that night."

_Talk_. _Ah. Hello, euphemism._ His thumb starts caressing the back of my hand, and I can't decide if it's soothing or irritating. I keep it casual. Veronica, the mistress of deception. "I've never talked to anyone about _anything_. A little bit with Wallace, you know, about Shelly's party. And you know, what you and I have..." I shrug.

The truth is, we've barely talked about my rape. The first time, I'd basically rewritten history, told him that it wasn't really even rape at all—even though I still felt like I'd been violated by _everyone_ at that fucking party—and that we were _'past the confessional portion of this program.' _And then I'd kissed him to make sure he wasn't repulsed by the rape victim. Thereafter, I'd deflected in classic Veronica fashion, and it didn't take long for him to drop it.

It's pretty fucked up that I've never forgiven Madison and yet I've barely talked to Logan about his culpability that night. It's crazy to realize that you have a tender little spot exposed by a gaping chink in your armor; I've duct-taped that sucker over and over again. I hear an echo of Logan's whoop, chortling over me as they turned me into a salt lick out by Shelly's pool. Ripping off another strip of tape, I obliterate that memory—for a little while.  
_  
Sort of._

And after the roof—well, I knew he was waiting for me to bring it up. Raise your hand if you think I ever did.

I realize that Logan's saying something. His über-concerned face swims into focus—I fucking dread that expression. "That's not good. That's not enough. You've got to talk about it. Parker was going to a support group every week."

I want to wipe that compassion right off his face. _I am strong, goddammit, don't you fucking pity me! _"Well, good for Parker. I'm not really support group material."

"Whoa." Logan exhales loudly.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a bitch. I just don't know what wallowing in this stuff is going to do for me."

"Maybe it will help you to sleep at night."

"I didn't know I was bothering you. You can sleep in your own bed from now on, okay?" I pull my hand from his and walk away.

"Veronica."

I go to the bureau and start pulling out sweats and a T-shirt so I can go for a run.

"Veronica! Don't run away."

I keep my back turned to him as I root around for a sports bra. "I'm going for a run. I'm not running away."

"Damn it! You're running away from _me_." He grabs me and turns me around. "I love you and we're going to figure this out." Frustrated, he tries to hug me, but I pull away.

"You manhandling me isn't going to solve anything." I'm shocked at the coldness in my voice. _I'm doing it again. You've forgiven him, remember?_

"It's not fair. You can walk away. I can't."

"I'm sorry about that." I bundle up my clothes and head to the bathroom to change, remembering that not that long ago, we'd been so comfortable with each other that we'd barely bothered with clothes.

But he's determined. With his long legs, he gets in front of me and sits down in front of the bathroom door.

I say rudely, "Move."

"Change here." He glares at me. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"Okay, I will." I start to strip off my pajamas, keeping my eyes defiantly locked on his. My top gets tangled in my arms, and I blush. I turn my back to him and pull on the sports bra, that oddly intimate action of pulling the elastic down below your breasts seeming a little too personal all of a sudden.

"Veronica." His voice sounds so sad that I turn around without thinking. Logan stands up and walks away. "I'm not going to do this to you. If you want to change in the bathroom, go ahead. If you want to run away, go ahead."

I watch in silence as he sits down at the kitchen table, his back to me, his head buried in his hands and his body hunched and beaten. He never did have much fortitude when we fought. Logan never had the courage or the cruelty to deliver the coup de grâce; he was always able to walk away without destroying me. He'd prefer to blow up the relationship rather than hurt me. We're different that way—I can go for the kill.

_And you did. You did it, Veronica. You're a killer. Way to go._

Throwing on the T-shirt, I walk over to him and stand behind him. My voice rasps. "I don't know why I want to run away from you. It's crazy, I need you like I need air."

He doesn't turn around, just sits there, defeated. "You have to talk about it. With your dad, and with me. Your dad needs to know about the nightmares. And everything else. You've never told him about Shelly's party, have you?"

"I can't. He'll die."

"He won't die. I didn't die."

"I can't! He'll never look at me the same."

Logan turns around. "You are the strongest person I know. You can do anything you want."

"I don't feel strong. I feel scared and lonely." He flinches when I say 'lonely.' "I mean...I don't know what I mean. I feel so guilty about killing that man, and I'm terrified that I screwed up somehow and they're going to be able to find us. And it's all jumbled up with...with...with the way I've been hurt before."

"I'm not going to let them hurt you." He grabs my hand, squeezing it almost painfully and pulling me closer. "I'm not going to let go of you."

"And I feel guilty because you're stuck here. You don't have a life here."

"It's all right. We're alive. I won't have to hide forever."

"I want our old life back." And that does it; I start to tear up. I hate being fragile like this. I want to be the old Veronica who knew exactly what to do. The old Veronica wouldn't be paralyzed by guilt and fear. Old Veronica would be on the move, kicking ass and taking names, with no worry about the consequences. Old Veronica moved _past_ her rape, goddammit. Motherfucking Beaver sailed over the edge, and that shit was _done. Over. Ancient fucking history._

He pulls me closer and hugs me. "You've got to give it time. We're still figuring this out."

_Veronica Mars does not wallow. She moves on. _"Let me go...I want to show you something." I retrieve the modem I've purchased from the bathroom where I've hidden it.

He looks at the box dubiously. "Tampons?"

"No, you idiot. This is a prepaid wireless modem." I slide it out from its hiding place and show him the small device about the size of a pack of gum.

"I thought your dad said no Internet."

"There's no way that anyone could track the location of this—it picks a different IP address every time. It could be Kansas, it could be New Jersey, anywhere in the U.S. And I'm going to use a proxy server to be doubly sure. Dad's just being paranoid." He's silent, assessing me, and I add, "I swear to you this is safe. I'm not taking crazy chances. I'm not doing that."

"Of course you are. We could just keep our heads down, live our lives—"

"This isn't a life. Especially for you."

"What are you going to do if you find something, Veronica, blackmail the mob? Take down a senator or a governor? Dig up dirt on Jake Kane, try to get him thrown in jail? Even if that works, how's that going to help us? The criminal charges won't just go away. There are going to be more charges from what happened in Arkansas. And—" He doesn't finish, but I know he means the shooting in Chicago—manslaughter charges.

_I slaughtered a man._

I'm breathing heavily. We don't put it in words very often, just how screwed we are. Finally, I say, "I don't know what I'm going to do, but I want to try."

"Veronica—"

"I can't _not _try. Don't tell Dad about this. Please. I need this."

He looks wounded, and I don't really understand what I said to cause that. I look at him quizzically, and Logan says, in a flat tone, "Veronica. We are safe right now. Together. Your dad is right. If this goes wrong...one or more of us could end up dead. Or in prison. Do you need this," he motions to the modem, "more than you need me?" He looks away, and then adds, "Am I ever going to be enough for you? Are you ever going to need _me_?"

"Of course I need you. I'm doing this for _you_! You can't hide the rest of your life."

"You're a liar, Veronica. Jesus." It's like a blow—he's slapped me, drawn blood. Logan's capable of more cruelty than I thought.

"What do you _want_ from me? I've told you over and over again, that you were right, that I was taking too many chances. I know this whole thing is my fault! You've got to let me fix this."

"You don't have to fix this. We're safe. Your dad has made us safe. Don't throw it away."

"Are you going to tell him what I'm doing?"

He sighs. "I guess— No, I won't tell him. But _you_ should. And I think you should tell your dad about Shelly's party, and Mercer, and you should talk to him about how you're feeling about the shooting. I don't think I can help you get over what happened in Chicago. He's been through it. You should be talking to a shrink, but maybe your dad can help."

It's another direct hit. "You're a _bastard_. Now I need a shrink?" But the truth is, I don't need a shrink. I need a rubber room, a straitjacket, and a bucketful of psychotropic meds.

I turn away from him and put on my sweats. It's a chickenshit move, but I can't stand to be in the apartment with him right now, and if I don't run, I'll explode into a million pieces.

He watches me in silence as I tie my sneakers. I strap on the tiny revolver in its ankle holster under my baggy sweatpants. When I open the door to leave, he says, "I miss you. I miss you more now than when we were broken up. It's killing me the way things are."

_Me too. Me too._

I close the door and run like hell.

•••••

It's humid here. It's not like Neptune. The air is sodden, and you feel like the air is too thick to run through. You sweat when you run and gasp for breath until you get used to it. I long for the constancy of California weather—blue skies and temperate weather that persists for months on end, only marred by the smoke of brush fires and smog. Purplish Pacific sunsets, beautiful with an unheralded drama that's taken for granted if you grew up there.

It's greener in North Carolina. Lush vegetation: azaleas, rhododendrons, honeysuckle, wisteria, and a few daring magnolias eking out an existence north of their home in the deep South.

I miss palm trees and xeriscaping, the quirky look of California's landscape.

Puffy clouds today in Chapel Hill, in a grayish-blue sky threatening a cloudburst. I should have brought a jacket.

I set off on a running loop I've grown to like—not too populated, but not so sparse that I worry about somebody getting the jump on me when I'm alone. Like always, I wish I could wear an iPod, but I can't stop being on alert even for a second. That's the new status quo.

I want to forget our fight. I want it to have never happened.

_'You're running away from me...You've got to talk about it...Parker went to a support group every week.'  
_  
_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

A single drop of rain on my cheek, and then another.

_'You should be talking to a shrink...Are you ever going to need me?'  
_  
Left, right. The right a little heavier because of the little revolver on my ankle, an extra pound of guilt and stress fifty percent of the time. Left, right. I'm getting better at compensating, and I hardly lurch at all now. Left, right. Left, right. I lick a drop of sweat off my upper lip: salty. _Salt lick._

I hear a rustling of leaves, rain and a slight wind disturbing the underbrush. More raindrops on my face; I brush the wetness away impatiently.

_Doesn't he understand? Need...that's the whole problem, that I need him so much._

There's a little hill ahead, and I gun it, pushing hard to sail to the top on aching muscles. Fatigue is my friend. Exhaustion is my Ambien.

Rain sprinkles on my face, soft trickles brushing my skin. A droplet catches in my eyelashes and prisms the world. Moisture begins to soak into my clothes, making them cling uncomfortably to my striving body.

_Rivulets of tequila snaking down my torso, my dress reeking of it the next day._

A wet branch slaps my face, and I whimper.

I remember wading into the ocean in Neptune, the sand shifting beneath my feet. Soaked with rain and seawater, I'd been so certain that I'd lost everything and everyone with my recklessness. I'd thought I'd killed Logan—I'd been convinced I'd find him half-dead in the hospital, kneecapped and concussed, with gaping exit wounds and a bullet lodged in his brain stem. Half-dead, or worse.

Left, right. Left, right.

I'm getting winded now, and my breaths are harsh and labored. Sweat runs into my eyes, and the rain and humidity blanket me. I'm drenched and sopping, and then the skies open up.

_You thought that was bad? Check this out,_ the sky laughs at me.

Needles of precipitation prick my skin and a rumble of thunder washes over me. The sky is black, with oppressive clouds chasing me. Water pours down, sheets of misery that fight me as I push myself to run, _run, run_.

I'm not quite to the halfway point yet. Turn now? Push on and complete the loop?

As if that was my most pressing concern.

The sweat pants soak up the water. They drag, winding themselves around my legs, and in a moment of paranoia I think that the gun must be visible through the sodden material.

I decide that I'm a lunatic.

My shoes squelch, left, right, left, right, with an occasional slip when traction just isn't there. I don't bother avoiding the pools of rainwater that drench me over and over again.

And then a police car passes by, its wheels slapping the wet pavement as they hit a puddle and send a sheet of water up over the curb. I see brake lights, and the cruiser stops by the side of the road just ahead.

_Did they see the gun? Are they looking for me?  
_  
_Act normal. Keep running. Oh god. This is it. I don't even have a phone to warn them. Or to say goodbye._

As I run past, an officer opens the window and yells, "Miss, do you want a ride?"

Southern hospitality; it always throws me. I force my voice to stay steady. "I'm fine. Thanks." Waving a little—I'm still a good little soldier, keeping up the pretense—I speed up and leave the cops behind. I pray that they don't look too closely at the outline of a concealed weapon on my ankle.

I hear the whoop of a siren behind me.

This is it. They've called in my description, and I'm done. How many 5'1" criminals are there?

_'Suspect is heading west on foot on Estes Drive.'_

'Roger, one-six-niner, suspect may be armed, and is considered dangerous.'

I keep running. _I'm not going to prison, goddammit!_

I'm so fucking wet, it's like dragging fifty pound weights on every step. Well, fifty-_one_ on the right foot. But I keep moving—I even speed up, exhorting myself to hurry down the road. That target on my back has returned, the one from Chicago. It's like an itch, skin puckered and drawn, powder burns on the edge of an entrance wound.

_'This isn't a life.'_

And then, against my will, I'm forced to slow down, momentum the only thing that's left to propel me forward in my exhaustion. I've expended every iota of energy from my body. Every muscle screams—they're drowning in lactic acid. My lungs cramp and burn, demanding oxygen and a respite. Stopping, I bend over with my hands on my knees and my chest heaving with exertion.

Drops of sweat mixed with rain run into my eyes as I wait to be arrested. I listen for the sound of pistols cocking, handcuffs tinkling as they're readied, radio static crackling, the _ka-chunk_ of a cruiser door being opened for a recalcitrant criminal wanted in three states.

But there's nothing. Just the shimmering wash of rain and the rustling of wet leaves in the wind.

I turn slowly, and the cruiser is gone. It was all my imagination. Was there even a police car at all?

_You've completely lost it, Veronica.  
_  
_'This isn't a life.' _

•••••

I knock on the apartment door. "It's me. Honeybun." The code word makes me wince. He's probably wishing we could change it to 'crazy bitch'.

One last chance to wipe the tears from my eyes before the door opens; surely the rain and sweat will hide them from him.

_Why do I feel like I have to hide crying from him?_

I compose myself. I will be strong; I won't be a freak show. But one look at his face, tortured and anguished over our fight, and I'm saying it. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'll talk to Dad like you want me to." And my eyes start leaking again as he pulls me inside the apartment and locks the door. "I'm so tired of being scared. I'm so tired of being wrong all the time."

"You're not wrong all the time." His fingers tremble as he strokes my cheek. "I'm sorry too. I was worried when it started to rain, and you didn't come back. Did something happen?" He touches my wet hair, and then pulls away, a pained expression on his face.

I wish I knew what he was thinking. _Why does this have to be so hard? Why did he pull away? _"Did something happen?" I echo. "Just the usual, me feeling like a lunatic. God, Logan, I don't want to feel so lonely. I don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone. I'm right here."

I swallow. "I love you. I'm sorry I can't ever say it. I'm not very good at showing it. I'm— I'm so scared. I'm scared we made a mistake by running. I'm scared they're going to find us. I'm scared I'm going to screw it up between you and me, and I'll lose you forever."

Logan whispers, "I'm scared too."

"How the hell are we going to do this? I'm such a fucking mess."

He looks appalled at my tone of self-hatred. "You're not a mess. I don't know how you survived in Chicago. I really don't know how you've survived the last four years at all. It's unbelievable how strong you are." Logan tilts his head and looks at me for a moment, and I wonder what's going through his head. I shiver a little as the air conditioning in the apartment cools me off. "You're soaked. Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

He grabs my hand and pulls me into the bathroom. Closing the toilet seat, he says, "Sit," and it feels okay not to argue and just cooperate with him for a change. I put my arms up in the air like a toddler, and he pulls the sweaty, soaked T-shirt over my head.

Logan kneels down and unties my sneakers as I loll backward, exhausted from pushing myself on my run. He rolls up the sweat pants and unbuckles the handgun in its holster, removing it to the kitchen drawer that my dad had assigned for its storage.

When he returns, Logan hesitates for a moment, and then he reaches for my sports bra, helping me to ease it over my head. Something's weird about the way he's acting, and I can't figure out what it is.

And then I realize he's not looking at my breasts. I murmur, "It's okay to look at me." He smiles a little, his eyes staying on my face. It's an achingly sad smile, and I crumble, my eyes filling with tears. "Logan, I'm so sorry."

"Please don't cry," he whispers. "Come on, let me help you get those sweats off. I don't know how you ran in them; they're completely waterlogged." He stands me up and eases the sodden sweat pants over my hips and down my legs. It's too fucking clinical, from a guy who used to burn with passion for me. Socks and underwear are next, with that same detachment, and he turns to the shower and adjusts the water for me. "Okay, you're all set."

"Damn it!"

He catches my eye and looks away. "Veronica. I'm _scared_. Don't you get it? Scared of whatever the hell is going on between you and me. Scared of the way you always run away from me."

"I don't want to feel lonely anymore." I'm practically begging. "Please, I want to be close to you again."

"I'll be right outside."

"No! Please, Logan! I— Come in the shower with me." It's hell, but I force myself to stand relaxed in front of him, nude and vulnerable. My hands tense into painful, tight fists, but I refuse to let them leave my side, my arms trembling with the stress. "Can't you see? I'm letting you in. Look at me. I'm naked. I'm yours, all yours. I love you, can't you see that? Please, Logan."

His eyes stay resolutely on my face. "Are you having another panic attack?"

I cringe, realizing he's picturing me curled up in a ball in the tub again. "Oh god. I'm sorry for everything." I step into the shower and pull the curtain shut. Leaning against the tiles, I start to cry, my shoulders shaking in soundless sobs as the water courses across my back.

I hear him moving around, and then the curtain opens and he steps into the shower with me. "Please don't cry." He turns me into his chest and hugs me. "Please don't cry."

"Why can't you look at me?" My voice is muffled, buried in his torso by his embrace.

"Because I don't understand what you're going through. I don't know how to help you. I'm worried because you seem to be thinking a lot about your ra— I mean, about when you were assaulted and it feels like I'm a part of it somehow."

I lie. Well, obfuscate. "You're not a part of it. You're the only thing that's keeping me sane."

"You're sure?"

I can't identify the tone of his voice. Is it disgust? Embarrassment? His timbre is mutated by the damn shower. It's white noise, a soothing sound that mocks me.

He says, "I keep thinking about your nightmare, and all I can see is you lying there at Shelly's and me not doing anything to stop it. Hell, _encouraging_ it! I egged them on that night. When you pull away from me..." No, not embarrassment. It's self-loathing: _'all I want to do is protect you'._ Water runs into his eyes, and he flicks his head impatiently.

"I'm not pulling away from you. I'm just—" _What _am_ I doing? I don't even know. _"I love you. That's all I know."

He sighs and closes his eyes for a second. "I love you too."

"I need to hang onto that. I— I want to start over with you. No petty jealousies. No worrying about the past, what we've done to each other, what people have done to us."

"Yeah, that sounds good." Logan doesn't sound convinced, and I can't blame him.

I shiver suddenly, and he maneuvers me under the shower head to warm me up. I close my eyes and whisper, "I'm really scared, but I like it when you take care of me. I _want _you to take care of me, to not be afraid to look at me, to touch me." The words scorch me when I let them hang there in the open, frightening and intimate.

"Then you've got to stop running away from me. You can't push me away, and then grab onto me when you're having a nightmare. I can't take it anymore, Veronica." Logan grabs the shampoo and pours a dollop onto his hands. "You're a mess. It must be pouring outside." His hands rub my scalp, the coolness of the liquid shampoo mixing with the soft warmth of the water.

I'd always loved our showers together, suds and heat and passion. Slick skin and relaxed muscles, a little illicit, but comforting too. I remember the two of us taking turns scrubbing each other's back, caked with sand and salt and sweat from the beach...being hoisted up onto his hips, the cool tiles pressing into my back as he thrust into me...the water pouring down, threatening to drown us, as we explored each other's bodies with our mouths and hands. I remember it all.

My eyes drift shut as his fingers drag through my knotted hair. Fingertips massage my scalp—an electrical current runs through my nervous system, telling me to relax.

_Let go. Let it be._

And I feel him jutting against me, hard and ready. His body isn't confused by all the push-pull.

"Keep your eyes closed so I can rinse your hair." He eases me backward into the shower stream, and I let him—I trust him to hold me. My eyes closed, I step over the edge into the void.

"Repeat," I murmur.

"Hmm?"

"You know, lather, rinse, repeat. Repeat, please." Logan pours out more shampoo and begins to work it into my scalp.

I moan softly. It feels unimaginatively easy right this moment, with a simple closeness between us. This is what a relationship is supposed to feel like. I try to embrace it, to let it wash over me like the water.

"Feels good, huh?"

"Yeah. You feel good." I run a knuckle along his length, a soft caress of intent—if he'll have me. His flesh responds, nudging me and begging for more.

He exhales. His hand grasps mine, and he guides me to touch him with the pressure he wants. "You're sure? You don't have to." A tight voice, hopeful, but throttled down. Not the usual confident growl that hustles me into his bed.

I open my eyes and look directly into his face. "I'm sure. Please, Logan." I begin to stroke him softly, a languid loving to keep him on edge—a promise of afternoon delights and taking our time. An assurance that I want to be with him, need to be with him.

His voice is husky, tense with pent-up desire. "Rinsing again." I close my eyes again, and I give myself over to him and the water. He leans me into the stream, and I sigh with pleasure as he steadies me and holds me.

Peeking, I see one hand cupping water onto me to wash away the last lacy bits of suds on my torso. I take his hand and place it on my breast, his smooth palm slipping over my aching, taut nipple. "Aren't you ever gonna kiss me?"

He smiles, subtle but genuine. Logan leans toward me, and I feel that ache deep inside me that says that I'm ready for him, my autonomic reaction to his proximity. His lips touch mine. It's the first real kiss we've had in ages—since that first day here when he'd chased me and tickled me.

The flesh is willing, yielding and supple. Familiar but longed for, missed and mourned in its absence, so new again—renewed. A tongue tip, desirous and tentative, slips through my parted lips and then without warning, it's teeth clacking, skin bruising, tongues seeking. His legs, driven by instinct, press against my thighs and try to open me to him. His hand tightens on my breast; a thumb seeks and finds the engorged tenderness of my nipple. I gasp a little, and he groans, "Come on. We need to get—"

"I know."

It's a tangle of limbs trying to shut off the water, opening the shower curtain, and grabbing towels. It's threadbare terrycloth hastily wrapped around our torsos and tripping us as it falls unheeded. It's hands that don't leave the other's body as we stumble into the bedroom and fall onto the bed. It's Logan above me, under me, rolling me in the heady vertigo of sexual positioning. It's a lovely, mutual slickness and blood rushing to all the right places, a moment of intuitive, carefree pleasure and pure emotion, untainted and unexamined.

Here he is with a condom in his hand, his eyes locked on mine, a last chance to say 'no', but there is trust that I won't.

And I don't. My hand follows his; we smooth the latex together, both of us panting with need and desperation. And then it's my legs spread and an accommodation, a fitting of my body to his and a joining of flesh and intent. Last reserves of energy are expended; impossibly contorted limbs and muscles are urged beyond pain to please the other.

And then the other disappears and we are just one.


	20. Chapter 20: Pyromania

**TITLE:** Pyromania (20/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 5,037**  
RATING:** R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing.**  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. Thank you, zaftig, for all your support. All remaining errors are my responsibility.**  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating.

* * *

_Last time in Precipitation: Veronica gets a job at J. Crew and Logan starts transcribing the Castle confessions, and the three of them settle into their new life in Chapel Hill. She secretly purchases a wireless modem, but hesitates to disobey her dad's orders not to access the Internet. Her nightmares continue and she clings to Logan at night, but she doesn't initiate sex and he doesn't try anymore.  
_

_Veronica finally tells Logan the substance of her nightmare—the imagined interrogation by Gory and Jake Kane, mixed with real-life details from the shooting in Chicago, her rape, and Mercer's attempt to rape her. Logan pushes her to tell her dad about Shelly's party and the nightmare. They argue, and Veronica shows Logan the modem, declaring that she's going to find a way to get their old lives back. He accuses her of going back to her old risk-taking ways and of not loving him enough to accept the safety of this new life, and the fight escalates. She escapes the apartment, trying to dissipate her anger by going for a run._

_On her run, her emotions overwhelm her; it begins to rain and she turns into a sodden mess. She encounters a police car and imagines that they've identified her as a fugitive._

_She stumbles back to the apartment and tries to be vulnerable to Logan, vowing that she'll tell her dad 'everything'. Craving his touch, she tries to cue Logan that she's finally ready to be intimate with him again. At first he resists, frightened that some of her distress is because she's still blaming him for her rape. But as she surrenders to him, completely exhausted both emotionally and physically, he takes care of her, and they tumble into bed._

* * *

I spend my shift at J. Crew stewing about talking to Dad. Logan had hugged me and sent me on my way without fussing at me, but it was clear to me that he expected me to keep my word. To my shame, I consider welshing on my promise to tell Dad everything.

Ashley, my supervisor, notices my foul mood and asks if something's wrong. I blame it on PMS, and ask if I can do inventory and stay off the floor today. Since nobody likes to do inventory, she's only too happy to agree. I grab a clipboard and head for the back of the store.

Jeff, another salesperson, takes my solitude as an opportunity to try to cop a feel. He's been paying me way too much attention since I started working here. I've been very tolerant when he 'accidentally' brushes against me, gritting my teeth and acting like it doesn't bother me. But he doesn't seem to discourage easily, and now I've been separated from the pack.

Every ten minutes, he comes back to where I'm working, pretending to need something right above or below where I've stationed myself. The second time his hands glaze over my ass, I retort, "Watch your hands or you're going to lose them."

"Aren't you adorable? Come on, Ashley's busy with a customer. Take a little break—she'll never know. Let's get to know each other, what do you say?" He produces a baggie with what looks like a couple joints. "You wanna get high?"

I try to keep my voice firm and calm. "Not really. Jeff, I've told you several times that I have a boyfriend and I really need this job. This is the last time I'm going to warn you to leave me alone."

He chuckles, refusing to take me seriously. Ashley is calling his name so he disappears to the front of the store again. If I had my taser, Jeff'd be getting to know Mr. Sparky. Keeping my head down like this completely goes against my nature, especially on a day like today when every nerve ending feels raw and irritated.

Inventory is mindless. Although I'm glad I don't have to put on my perky smile for customers, this job doesn't do much to occupy my thoughts. So I go over what I'm going to say tonight. _Dad, about three years ago, there was a party... Dad, the first thing I want to say is that I'm okay... Dad, you know that chlamydia diagnosis? Dad, Logan wanted me to tell you something..._

They all suck. They all make me feel like I'm going to puke.

I try to reassure myself that at least Beaver's dead; at least Dad won't be flying off the handle on some crazy scheme for vengeance. Until he finds out Logan was at the party.

_Oh shit._

_All right, I can do this._ I'll say that some kids brought GHB to the party to get high and there was a mixup with the cups.

Dad's voice, thundering, _'Didn't I tell you to always watch your drink being poured?'  
_  
He won't yell. He won't be mad. Besides, how many times have I asked myself that question?

_That's why you hate Madison so much. Because _you_ fucked up. _You_ fucked up. You. She's the walking, breathing embodiment of how stupid you were that night._

Deep breath.

Forget about Madison; she's an insect, an annoying skin rash, that black gunk on your shower curtain that never completely goes away.

There's no need to say that it was Logan who brought the GHB. If Dad presses me, I'll say I'm not sure how it ended up in my drink. That's not too big a lie, right?

And the salt lick? _Oh no. No. _Never happened. Let's just say that I don't remember most of the evening.

Dad won't be mad. I'm sure he won't be mad. No, of course he won't be mad. He'll pull me onto his lap and rock me.

And then he'll ask why I never told him. He'll be hurt, because he always thought we were so close. And what do I say? _I don't know why, I don't know, I don't know._

And what do I tell him about Duncan? My not-rape. My first time. My _real_ first time. _Oh god._

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't hear Jeff sneaking up behind me until he's placed both hands on my shoulders, massaging the tight muscles. I whirl around and knock him backwards, grabbing one of his arms and twisting it behind his back as painfully as I can. Jeff is propelled around and his torso hits the shelves with a loud bang. My clipboard clatters to the floor and papers scatter all over. "I told you to leave me alone," I hiss.

"You psycho bitch, what the fuck!"

"Yeah. I _am_ a psycho bitch! I've been on good behavior for a really long time, and I'm itching to revisit my true self."

"Wha—? What are you talking about?"

"Jeff, I've been really patient with you. I've explained to you that I'm involved with someone. I don't get high. I need this job. I'm having a rough day, and you're pissing me off. You really don't want to make me your enemy." I pull hard on his arm, using all my body weight to wrench his shoulder in an unnatural direction.

"Ow! Let go! I'll stop, I swear."

"If you ever get within two feet of me again, I'll narc on you. I'll tell Ashley to make you do a urine test. You know, that possibility of random drug testing you agreed to on your application form? That shit stays in your body for ten days." It's a lie. The last thing I want is to rock the boat here by getting involved in employee drama. J. Crew is a decent place to work, and Ashley is a nice boss who appreciates me. But Jeff picked a bad day to aggravate me.

I let go of Jeff's arm, and he turns around gingerly and backs away from me, his expression clearly indicating that the world is insane and I'm Queen Bizarro. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll leave you alone."

Suddenly I laugh. _Welcome back, old Veronica._ Jeff looks totally freaked at my laughter and hustles back onto the sales floor.

_Problem solved._

_If only all my problems were that easy._

_•••••  
_

It's still raining when my shift ends. The bus ride is over in a flash and like a zombie I find myself knocking on the apartment door, saying 'Honeybun'.

Every cell in my body screams "run", but there's nowhere to run to. Behind this door is everything I've got left in the world.

Logan opens the door, a tentative smile on his face to match mine. He kisses me dutifully on the cheek, and then, apparently emboldened, his lips find mine and he kisses me hard until my knees sag.

"Um, where's Dad?" I gasp, when he finally lets me go with a hint of a satisfied smirk on his face.

"I sent him out for ice cream."

I realize that something smells good. Chicken, I think. I flash on my mom preparing Thanksgiving, and suddenly I feel overwhelmed with missing her. Is she worrying about us, following the story in the papers? Or maybe Mom's lying drunk in a ditch, body rotted and ravaged from cheap booze, and she couldn't give two shits about us. Yeah, that's probably more likely. _Forget about her. _"Well, aren't you Suzy Homemaker. What's for dinner?"

"Roast chicken with stuffing, peas, and a surprise."

"A surprise?" I realize this is all for me, a good meal to prop me up so I can face the music later tonight. And I'm furious at his manipulation. "Sounds good," I manage.

He must notice my lack of enthusiasm. Logan cocks his head and says, "I thought maybe you'd be starving after I ravaged you this morning." A finger reaches out and smoothes my hair behind my ear. "No one's going to make you do anything, okay? If it feels right...you know...to talk to your dad—"

"I know." My voice is too harsh. He's trying really fucking hard here, and I'm being a bitch. I inhale and consciously modulate my tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. Tell me more about this surprise." Ostentatiously, I sniff the air. "Garlic."

Logan puts his air around my waist and escorts me to the kitchen, where he lifts a pot lid. "What was your favorite thing on the Neptune Grand room service menu?"

"Ooh, garlic mashed potatoes?" I smile, despite myself.

"With lots of butter and salt. Comfort food at its finest."

The Betty Crocker cookbook I'd found for him at the garage sale is open on the counter, with a large stain covering the page and the binding's edge a little singed. The floor is sticky underfoot, and I'm betting there were a few disasters involved in the preparation of this meal. I resolve to enjoy every mouthful, no matter what. "You're the best. Thanks for remembering."

"Of course." He pulls me into a hug and whispers, "I'm trying to take care of you. If you'll let me."

"Yeah, I know." There's a knock on the door, and I go to let Dad in. The code system we've worked out is cumbersome, but we're getting used to it. We've made a contingency plan to contact each other through the casual encounters section on New York City's Craigslist if we ever have to split up.

Just a random thought about something going wrong—splitting up and maybe never seeing them again—and my heart starts pounding and I'm hyperventilating. I turn away from Dad and sit down on the couch to conceal my discomfiture.

"Good eatin' tonight," Dad announces as he puts the ice cream into the freezer. "Julia Childs here has been slaving over a hot stove all afternoon."

I snark, "Um, he shoved a chicken in the oven, they're frozen peas, and it's stuffing from a mix."

"I peeled the potatoes," Logan protests from the kitchen where he's stirring the pots. "That's not nothing."

"You took the giblets out of the chicken cavity, right?" I ask.

"The what? Crap. There was something inside the chicken?"

Dad chuckles. "He's kidding. I made sure he took them out. You know, he won't tell me what the occasion is."

"We're okay, that's the occasion. Isn't that enough?" I say, with a little bit of an edge to my voice.

Dad looks at me. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Well...you know that guy at work who's always bugging me?"

Logan turns and frowns. "You mean Mr. Grabby Hands?"

I nod. "He snuck up on me and started massaging my shoulders. He wanted me to smoke a joint with him and 'get to know each other'." I make air quotes and roll my eyes. "I was startled and I pinned him up against the wall—twisted his arm behind his back. You know. I, uh, I overreacted. Told him I'd narc on him if he didn't leave me alone." After our little scene, Jeff had avoided me, but I'd worried about it the whole afternoon.

Logan says, "Good. I hope you hurt him." A serving spoon clatters to the floor, and I wince as Logan wipes it on a towel and puts it back in the pot.

"Not good," I reply. "He's going to remember the girl who was a little too expert at self-defense moves. I could see it in his eyes."

"What choice did you have?" Dad asks. "You couldn't let him harass you forever."

"I should have done what a normal employee would do—talked to my supervisor. Now she's going to wonder what's going on, why he's avoiding me. What if he tells her what happened, and they start checking me out and looking at my bullshit resume?"

"I think you're worrying too much, honey," Dad says. "Try not to think about it."

"And it felt _good_ to fight back. I'm tired of keeping my head down."

Logan's eyes meet mine, and I see that he gets it. That I'd been a tightly wound spring this morning, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. A condition that he's very familiar with. Logan says, "I think it's okay. Just be polite and businesslike with him in front of your boss. So that he'll look like he's the crazy one if he complains about you."

"He's right, honey. Jeff will probably do something stupid and get fired before you know it," Dad concurs. "Come on, let's eat. Everything'll seem better after a good meal."

The chicken's a little dry, but the stuffing is awesome, with lots of monosodium glutamate and salt, and gravy from a mix to boot. It's pretty hard to screw up peas with butter, so they're good too. And though the potatoes are not quite up to Neptune Grand standards, the Neptune Grand chef never made love to me, so I declare guilelessly that they are the best I've ever had.

Logan knows me very well. By the end of the meal, I'm relaxed and comfortable. Fortified. And after we've stacked the dishes in the sink, he sits beside me on the couch and clasps my hand. He's ready...the question is, am I?

Dad grabs the remote. "There's a Braves game on. What d'you say?"

"Maybe...we can talk for a little bit?" I say tentatively. Logan's fingers squeeze mine.

Dad replaces the remote on the table, a little too gently. "What's going on?" His eyes flick from my face to Logan's, and then to the kitchen, and I see that he understands, that there was a reason for the special dinner. "Talk to me, Veronica."

"There was a party. Sophomore year." Dad's face is puzzled. He doesn't get it. I take a deep breath. "It was a few weeks after the recall election. You were in Vegas, on one of your first skip traces."

"I'm sorry, honey, I don't understand."

"Somebody slipped me something during the party, and I, um, I woke up the next morning. I don't really remember anything about the party after getting there. And, uh...jesus." Logan's thumb strokes my hand. "The next morning, my clothes were, well, my dress strap was broken, and my underwear was..." I can't say it. I won't say it.

Dad's in shock. "Are you trying to tell me you were..." He can't say it either.

"I was roofied and raped." I'm stuttery and tremulous, all my strength and resolve ebbing away.

Dad stands up, his face white. "Veronica! Are you...are you okay?" He squeezes next to me onto the couch and hugs me with all his strength. I can feel him trembling.

"I'm fine. Really, I'm fine. I swear." It's like I've transferred all my nervous energy to Dad; I feel like a dirty sock—no, a used condom—and now he's the tightly coiled spring that's going to explode.

Dad pushes off the couch and starts pacing around the room, all impotent fury and vengeance denied. There's a terrible silence sucking all the air out of the apartment. "That's when I got the chlamydia," I rush to say. "I hated that you thought I was sleeping around when that juicy fact came out at Aaron's trial."

I've never seen this expression on his face, his jaw clenched and his eyes smoldering black with rage. There are new worry lines on his brow, and I wonder if I've scored his flesh permanently with my revelation. "Who did it? Veronica, who?"

I look at Logan, and then back at Dad. "Um, it's complicated. I didn't know for a long time, and then I found something out about a year after, and..." My voice fails.

_I can't do this._

I can hear Dad's agitated breathing. He caught my glance at Logan, and now he's stopped pacing and stares directly at him. With a nod of his head, he barks, "Who was it? Was it _him_?" Dad's voice is menacing and suspicious beyond bearing. He must _never_ find out that it was Logan who brought the drugs to the party.

"Dad, no! It was Cassidy, and... And then Duncan."

"What?"

I can see him picturing me being passed around in some sick gang rape, and I hurry to clarify. "Dad, it wasn't like a crazy orgy. Give me a chance to explain what happened. Someone brought the drugs to the party, and...they didn't mean to give them to me, but they were in a drink that someone handed to me. I know I shouldn't have taken that drink, I'm so sorry that I did that, you'd told me over and over again not to do that, please don't be mad at me." I'm babbling. I hate the way Dad's looking at me.

"Veronica, it's okay," Logan murmurs.

My dad finally perceives my turmoil through his own rage. With great effort, he calms his voice. "Veronica, I'm sorry. I'm not mad. Please tell me what happened after you had the drink."

I taste blood—I've gnawed a chunk out of my lip. Carefully choosing my words, I continue. "I was really out of it, and somehow I ended up in one of the bedrooms. I don't know if someone took me there or if I stumbled there myself and passed out. I guess Beav— I mean, Cassidy found me there, and..." I breathe for a few seconds. "Later, well, Duncan had been dosed too, and you know that sometimes those drugs make you a little..." I exhale loudly. "Eager. I guess Duncan thought I was into it and we...uh, we had sex. Even though I don't remember it."

"Don't you dare call it sex," Dad says angrily. "You couldn't give consent."

"But neither could Duncan."

"Why didn't you report this?" I don't respond, and Dad repeats, "Veronica? Why didn't you go to the sheriff's department or the hospital?"

"I tried to report it. Lamb didn't believe me." Dad gasps, he actually fucking gasps. This is news to Logan as well, and his hand crushes mine. "He told me, 'Is there anyone in particular you'd like me to arrest or should I just round up the sons of the most important families in town?'" My sarcasm is withering. As soon as I say the words, I regret them for the way that they destroy my dad. A little euphemism here would have sufficed. He'll never be the same after hearing what Lamb said to me that day.

"That fucking son of a bitch! I'd kill him with my bare hands if he wasn't already dead. Veronica, why didn't you tell me? I would have gone with you and insisted that Lamb investigate."

"You were already in a war with the '09ers. Can you imagine what they would have said if I'd claimed to have been raped? By one of them? It was all '09ers at that party."

Dad frowns. "So that means you were there," he says, turning to Logan. "Why didn't you protect her?"

I squeeze Logan's hand with a warning, but he ignores me. "I wish I had. God, you have no idea. I wish to hell I'd swooped her up and gotten her out of there when I saw that she was bombed. I was furious with you, for that vendetta you had against the Kane family, and pissed at Veronica for taking your side. I'm eternally sorry for this, but I made Veronica's life hell that whole year. My friends too; we mocked her and tormented her, and I think that's why she got raped that night. Because I took out my rage at you on her."

"You prick. Your _rage._" Dad's acrimony is awful and terrifying. "You motherfucking asshole! Why didn't you do something when you saw that she'd been drugged?"

I interrupt. "Dad! It's complicated, you've got to calm down. Logan was fifteen years old and he made a mistake. And we were all grieving for Lilly. All of us were pretty screwed up at the time."

Dad's still fuming. "And that kid Cassidy—wasn't he your best friend's brother?"

I protest, "He didn't know what Cassidy was doing. No one did." Feeling Logan squirming beside me, I add, "Logan, please, let me tell it." I put my arm on Logan's, and his eyes meet mine.

"Hold on a second," Dad says, his eyes narrowed as he watches my interaction with Logan. I feel like a suspect, hauled down to the station for questioning, and I shrink back into the couch cushions. "What don't you want Logan to say? What did he do?" He turns to Logan. "What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?"

Logan takes a breath, and I rush to say, "Daddy, he didn't do anything. He just gets upset when we talk about it."

Logan shakes off my hand clawing at his arm. Staring at my father, his eyes steady and his face grim, he says, "I didn't give the drugs to Veronica that night, but I'm the one who brought the Liquid X to the party. Not to hurt anyone, but because we wanted to have fun, like a rave fun. I gave it all away, I swear to you—I didn't know she'd been dosed."

It's my turn to gasp. "Logan, no!"

Dad grabs Logan's collar and hauls him to his feet. Logan's got six inches on my father, but Dad's ruthless, a monstrous avenger, with Logan cowering from his fury. I'm on my feet, without realizing that I stood up. Futilely, I pull on Dad's arm, trying to get his attention, attempting to stop him. I've never heard Dad's voice sound like this, an inferno of hatred and retribution. He growls at Logan, "Wait a second. Are you fucking telling me that you brought date rape drugs to a party, and you didn't keep track of them? And then my daughter ended up raped, _twice_, because of it? Because of _you_?"

I see what's coming; there can be only one result of this anger. "Daddy, no!"

And then Dad punches Logan in the face twice, once for each rape, I guess. Logan falls to the floor, and Dad pulls him up again. There's a whine to Logan's words, and I have a fleeting thought that _this is how Logan sounded when he begged Aaron to stop_. "I'm sorry...I've tried to make it up to her every day."

Logan doesn't protect himself, and Dad slaps him, openhanded. I try to push myself between them, snot running from my nose and my eyes blurred with tears. Dad shoves me aside and hits him again, and again, before he finally lets Logan drop to the floor and walks away, his body shaking with the wrath that still courses through his body.

This is how it ends. This has to be a heart attack, this cramping pain in my chest and not nearly enough oxygen in my lungs, because Dad's going to send Logan away, and Logan's going to get arrested and killed in prison. That's if Dad doesn't actually kill him in front of me.

All because I couldn't deal with my rape. Three, no, three and a half years ago; it's ridiculous to be such a mess. _You don't even remember it! How can you be so stupid?_ Stupid Veronica, it's all your fault. _Stupid weak bitch cunt loser._

I want to run. Run. _Run!_

...The smell of gasoline and sounds of a scuffle. Crashes and grunts; there was no way to tell who was punching who. I pounded on the walls of my dark prison, scrabbling for something, anything that would release me. Dad had come to my rescue, but it was too late, _too late_, and the fire would consume me. Veronica Mars, extra-crispy recipe. _'She's in the fridge, Keith. You might want to check up on her.'_ A cautionary tale, you got that right. Everything was burning, incendiary: gasoline-fueled flames leapt into the air. Dad, his arms and back on fire. The scream of searing skin, and the odor of charred flesh and singed hair..._  
_  
I'm in the dark, hunched into a ball, rocking, rocking. My head's going to explode. My lungs hurt. I'm cold, _so cold,_ shivering, trembling. Cool tile all around me, frigid porcelain leeching away all my body heat. How did I get here? When did I get here? Where is here? Rhythmic tapping. No, knocking. Probably Jake Kane coming to kill me, the man who would be my daddy, except he's not. He's _not. _Dad is my dad. Daddy, on fire. My daddy walked through fire to save me.

"Veronica, honey, can you unlock the door?"

He _sounds _rational. Calm. He doesn't sound like he's going to pummel Logan into the ground. But you never really know.

"Veronica, I'm so sorry. Please let me in."

"No," I whisper. I put my hands over my ears; I don't want to hear it when he kills Logan. All my fault. _All my fault._

Scratching noises, and then a bang, and the door flies open. I shriek, and cover my head with my arms, pulling as far away from the door as I can. Murmured voices. Talking about me, they're talking about me, they're going to do something to me. Strong arms grab onto me, and I fight. I slap and kick and punch, but they defeat me, they control me. Struggling against their grip as they carry me to the bedroom...got to get away, _got to get away._

_Shh...shh...shh._

Imprisoned in a hug. What's that thing called, Stockholm syndrome? It feels okay to be hugged, but that's how you know you're really screwed...

_Shh...shh...shh._

_...even worse than the first time..._

_...exhausted since she got here..._

_...panic attack..._

_It's okay. Shh. It's okay._

_...maybe we should take her to a hospital...should have told me..._

_...I've been really worried...too frightened to sleep alone..._

_It's okay. Shh. Shh._

_...a hell of a black eye..._

_...it doesn't matter..._

_...the cupboard above the refrigerator, behind the box..._

I'm eased into a sitting position. A glass is placed against my lips; horrible, awful Scotch whiskey. I sputter, but a few drops go down. "Try to drink a little, honey."

_'Cowboy up, Mars.'_

I cough and take another sip. It burns, alcohol flames licking at my throat. A hand smoothing my brow, that's— _Logan? Logan's still here?_ And Dad. That's Dad cuddling me.

I see a woman in the cheap mirror above the bureau. Not me; I don't have auburn hair. The image is distorted, and the glass of the mirror has black speckles where the backing's worn off, almost like the woman's been singed by fire.

That's some strange-looking chick staring back at me.

"Veronica, Logan told me a little bit about what's been going on. That you've been having nightmares every night."

I tense. My nightmare. I remember wanting to control that information, to massage it into something that I could handle.

Dad sighs. "I'm sorry I hit him. I understand that you were all kids at the time. I wish it hadn't happened the way it did, but I believe him when he says he's sorry. I shouldn't have hit him."

There's sludge in my throat, from tears and whiskey and stress. I swallow a little, but my voice is still husky and thick with emotion. "Logan's okay? He's— He's still here?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

I turn a little and see his face. Cheekbone reddened, eye swollen half-shut, a little blood on his lip; a scruffy beard and close-cropped hair, but still Logan Echolls. I think about how he'd taken care of me today—how good it had felt to surrender to him. I think about Dad, and how I need to fix this, to rehabilitate Logan. And suddenly, the answer's as plain as the fiery mark on Logan's cheek. "Logan, can you get me some water?" I cough and try to get my voice under control.

"Of course."

Once he's left the bedroom, I say it. "Dad, you realize that he's exactly like you? When I need to be rescued, Logan's right there, even if we're fighting. When he finds out that someone's hurt me, he punches their lights out. Even if I push him away, he's there for me."

Dad scoffs. "We're alike?"

"In all the important ways. Give him a chance to grow up." And all the tension, all the doubts in me slip away, because Logan's figuring this out, just like I am.

"Why couldn't you ever tell me what happened at that party?"

"I just kept thinking, _'no good can come of it'._"

"You know it doesn't change how much I love you."

"I know."

Logan returns with water for me, and I sip it dutifully. Dad says, as casually as he can, "Maybe tomorrow we can talk some more. You know, about Chicago, maybe about your dream if you feel up to it."

I look at Logan. "You're awfully chatty today. Is there anything you didn't tell him?" Some buried instinct tells me to load my words with sarcasm, but I'm just too tired, too wrung out, and I let the words float out without anger.

Logan scratches his head; he seems befuddled by my equanimity. "Go ahead, get mad at me if you want. But we were trying to figure out if you needed a doctor. Maybe a hospital. You scared us." His eyes slide away from me.

"A hospital?" I start trembling. I'm more fucked up than I thought if they'd even considered a hospital.

"Shh. It's okay. You're going to be fine." Dad hugs me a little tighter. "How 'bout you guys take the bedroom tonight?" At my look of disbelief, he nods. "Logan said you slept better when he was with you."

"Yeah. What about—"

"I trust you to be careful."

"You're not mad at him? You're not going to...?"

"I'm not. Give me a hug, and then I want you to get some sleep."

Dad embraces me tightly, and I whisper, "I'm sorry I never told you."


	21. Chapter 21: Prognosis

**TITLE:** Prognosis (21/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore**  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 7,257**  
RATING:** R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing.**  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.**  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating. I'm probably not going to be able to update consistently for a while.

* * *

_Last time in Precipitation: Veronica has a terrible day of worrying after finally deciding to tell her father about Shelly Pomroy's party; at J. Crew, she lashes out at her co-worker, Jeff, when he makes a pass at her._

_Veronica nervously tells her dad about the rape, explaining Cassidy and Duncan's roles that night. Keith presses her for more details, and Logan, over Veronica's objections, tells her father that he was the one who brought the Liquid X to Shelly's party. Keith blows up and reacts physically, striking Logan several times, and Veronica has a dissociative crisis, brought on by PTSD and the unrelenting stress of their escape from Neptune. She locks herself in the bathroom to escape the altercation between Logan and her dad._

_Keith and Logan, working together, get her out and calmed down. While Veronica is out of it, Logan tells Keith about Veronica's nightmares; Veronica knows she *should* be furious with him, but she isn't. Veronica realizes that her dad lashed out the same way that Logan had with Gory, and she tells her dad that he's just like Logan, in all the important ways._

* * *

Warm. Soft. Quiet.

I squint through a slit in my eyelids, braced for the intrusion of light. My head feels muzzy and a little achy, and it takes a second to register exactly where I am. Chapel Hill, but why am I sleeping in the bedroom? Something happened, something...not good. Subtle sounds of movement tickle my ears as I discern a familiar shape walking from the bureau to the closet. "Hey," I croak.

"Hey, yourself, sleepyhead." He turns, and I wince at the sight of Logan's face, with its massive black eye and swollen lip.

Memories flood my brain of Dad slamming his fist into Logan's face and me hiding in the bathroom—but I don't want to think about my meltdown quite yet. "Oh my god, your face," I whisper. _Dad. Logan. Fuck. Fuck!_

He shrugs. "It'll be okay. Just a black eye." It's unspoken: _Aaron did a lot worse._

"That bruise on your back from Gory finally healed and now—"

Setting some folded laundry on the bureau, Logan walks over to the bed and sits down next to me. "Stop. It's okay. How'd you sleep last night?"

"What time is it?" I struggle to sit up. My whole body's stiff from sleeping too long, and I feel a little lost in time and space.

"Ten a.m. You slept for about twelve hours."

"Wow. I haven't done that in ages."

He nods. "Yeah. Maybe you needed it? What about the, you know, the nightmare?"

"I don't think I dreamt at all last night. I was exhausted—I don't even remember falling asleep."

"Good, that's what I thought. No dreaming is good."

He doesn't say it, but I automatically add on, _'See? I told you so. I told you it'd help to tell your dad.'_

I hug my knees to my chest. _Dad punching Logan...huddled in the tub, noises...somebody holding me until I stopped struggling._ Not quite memories, but flashes that I struggle to make sense of. They must have broken the lock on the door last night to get me out of there. _Shame...so weak. _I push it all away; there's information to gather, to process.

My memory of the conversation with Dad before the fight is clear enough, and I focus on Logan—_foolish Logan—_admitting his part in the circle jerk otherwise known as Shelly's party. I clear my throat; I'm phlegmy and parched. "What possessed you last night to tell Dad about bringing the drugs? I wasn't going to mention that."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I had to say it." Logan looks away, and I wonder what's going through his head. "I knew you were going to put a good spin on it."

"And what would have been wrong with that?" My voice sounds really fucking weird.

"Spinning that night hasn't done us any good so far. It's been a giant wall between us. I just wish I hadn't _reveled_ in being such a jackass to you. I mean, I understand that I was upset about Lilly, and, yeah, I was just a kid. But to freeze you out, to torment you because of what your dad was doing? Which, by the way, was his job?"

_It was worse than freezing me out_, I think. _I got raped by a couple of '09ers, and then you and your cronies called me a slut for over a year. That's kind of despicable._

And then it occurs to me. When Logan and I were together over the summer between junior and senior year, he made sure that everyone treated me with respect. The nasty insinuations written in bathroom stalls stopped. The catcalling and slut-sneezing disappeared, for the most part. So I would have thought that when we broke up a few months later, Logan and his crew would have gone back to their petty cruelties.

But other than Logan and I personally sniping at each other, the exquisite torture of sophomore and junior year—the barbs about my mother and my supposed lack of chastity, the public humiliation of scurrilous graffiti and slanderous rumors—never quite resurfaced at that level again. And I don't believe it was solely because I'd solved Lilly's murder or that I'd reunited with Duncan, although I'm sure both of those facts helped.

It certainly wasn't that my fine classmates had forgotten the art of bullying as retribution. They'd tried to destroy Jackie when her father was arrested. I remember how keenly I'd understood exactly what she was going through, even if I'd had a hard time bonding with her personally.

"When we broke up the first time and I got back together with Duncan..." I don't know how to ask it. _Does it even matter?_ But of course it matters; I always have to know everything. "Even after we broke up, you told everyone to leave me alone, didn't you? The rumors and the graffiti, I mean."

"What?" He looks at me, a little off-balance from the non sequitur. "Senior year? Yeah, pretty much. Except it was kind of hard to get Dick to go along."

"I never realized you did that."

"I was angry with you for dumping me, but I still loved you too. And I was ashamed of how we'd treated you, especially when I found out about Shelly's party. I never would have admitted it to you, but, yeah, I tried to keep a lid on it, as much as I could."

_'I've tried every day to make it up to her.' _"Thank you for that."

There's a really awkward silence. _How the hell do you get past a history like ours?_ Finally I say, "We didn't tell Dad that you were the one who dosed Duncan. Can we agree that maybe he doesn't need to know that? I really like you alive, okay?"

"All right."

Worrying at my lip a little, I taste blood. I remember gnawing at that flesh last night during our discussion. "I swear to you that I've forgiven you for that night. You didn't know what was going to happen."

He shakes his head. That closed-up eye nags at me; the swollen lip accuses. "I think I did know what might happen. I think I would have done anything to hurt you that night. You don't know how angry I was, about everything. I was incredibly angry at _you_, and I don't think I ever thought about how unfair that was. As if _you_ could control your dad. And now that I've gotten to know him a little bit," he grimaces ruefully, "I understand how his moral compass wouldn't have allowed him to rubber-stamp a snow job by the Kanes."

_Please...let these confessions stop._ My head spins and the room tilts vertiginously; I hate everything about this. _If only I could run somewhere, hide somewhere where his bloodied face wouldn't haunt me..._

He's looking at me expectantly, and I know it's my cue to respond. To proclaim my understanding. To spill my guts. I remember long sessions with Dr. Dave sophomore year where he exhorted me to "share" my feelings to no avail. _Guess that head-shrinking didn't really 'take'._

_You've got to do this, Veronica. _Hesitantly, I put my hand on his, and he grabs it and holds on. I inhale and let my issues fly. "I was angry too. And I was in shock about everything. I'd lost my best friend, Duncan had dumped me, and all of a sudden all my friends hated me... At least a part of me went to that party to say 'fuck you all'."

Again, he looks away, hiding himself from me. Shrouded, denied, strangled. We're a great pair; maybe _that's_ what I should hang on to. "Logan, I missed _you_. It wasn't just that I'd lost Lilly and Duncan, I'd lost _you_ too. You changed overnight into someone who hated me, and I thought you were gone forever."

Logan turns back to me, and I see the pain on his battered face. "What do we do? How do we make it better, after all this time? How do we stop hurting each other?"

_How is this helping?_ I'm longing for a platitude-of-the-day calendar to give me advice. Unassisted, all I can manage is, "We're here together now." He shakes his head, because it's not nearly enough. I continue, "I want to try to get past this. It's the first time we've ever really talked about this—maybe it'll help. Like you said, I needed to talk about it, and I never did. And I'll try not to push you away like I always do." I feel a little virtuous, admitting my frailties and conceding his wisdom. _Surely I should get points for that._

"What if— What if you're just saying that because I'm here with you guys—because I'm your only choice now? Would you be saying that if we were back in Neptune and not on the run?"

He's so earnest and concerned; pretty much the perfect boyfriend. Too bad I'm not the perfect girlfriend.

Hesitantly, I reply, "I think so." Logan winces a little at my tentativeness. Pulling his hand free, he scratches his head and the psychic wall between us rematerializes. I feel exhausted; this business of being sincere and open feels never-ending and too fucking hard.

_'You really think a relationship should be that hard?'_

I shake off my fears and explain myself. "Logan, I'm trying to be honest. I do know that I fought for you to be here with us. It would have been easy to leave you behind in Neptune, or to let Dad give into his doubts when we found out about your probation. I have to tell you, I can't even imagine allowing Dad to abandon you. I want you here with us." On some imaginary tote-board, my credits are skyrocketing. _I fought for you, goddammit, doesn't that mean anything?_

"You're just feeling guilty," he replies, his voice filled with self-loathing. "You think this is your fault."

"It _is_ my fault, and you guys won't let me fix it." Anger seeps into my consciousness. "Stop making me prove my love to you every five seconds." I inhale sharply; that came out a lot harsher than I intended. "Logan, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"I think you did."

"You know what would really help? If you decided to work _with _me, instead of against me. Agree with me that we should try to figure out a way to get our lives back! It doesn't mean that I don't love or respect you, just because I want to go to college, have a career, live wherever the fuck I want to in the world."

"What the _hell_, Veronica? You know, _you _were the one who fought the hardest back in Neptune, that we needed to run. And now—"

"Yes, because Dad would have gone to prison and Gory would have killed you if we'd stayed! That doesn't mean I was planning on giving up on life forever—"

"I'm scared, all right? You always think you know everything, that you can do anything whether it's dangerous or not. I remember the way you tried to blackmail that judge. You were amped up, excited about it, and then it blew up in your face. This is _exactly _the same. I trust your dad, that lying low is our best option. I'm scared you're going to get us all killed."

"You've made that _incredibly _clear." We stare at each other, both of us breathing hard with the effort not to yell and scream.

_we're doing it again we're doing it again we'redoingitagain_

I close my eyes and focus on a pinpoint of memory: falling into bed with him yesterday, surrendering myself to be one with him again. My hand fumbles, searching for his. Ten fingers press hard and weave together, the tendrils of our fragile connection assimilating and reestablishing.

His voice is rough and weary, conciliatory but wary. "You made a huge concession yesterday. You told your dad like I wanted you to. I promise that I won't fight you on this if you promise that you're being careful."

"I'm being careful. I promise."

"Most days I just want to get the hell out of here. Find a beach somewhere. I need the water; I need wind and waves so I don't feel crazy. When you guys aren't here, sometimes I pull a couple pillows over my face and just scream my head off." Pulling free from my hand, he stands up and walks over to the window set high in the wall. His eyes focus on the sliver of blue sky visible through the glass. "It feels like I've been stuck inside for a year."

I've been so consumed with my own angst that I've forgotten how terrible it is for him to be confined to this small space. "It's not going to be forever."

"Yeah, it is. Some bottom-feeding gossip rag is always going to be dredging it up, and I'm never going to be able to go out in public. Unless I start packing on the pounds and get plastic surgery. It's not like I haven't thought about it. A new nose, cheek implants, maybe some collagen for my lips."

"Ew." He doesn't laugh; his gaze stays focused on the window. I ask, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I've been thinking a lot. I also had an idea how we could leave the U.S. without being detected. Maybe we could even get to a country without extradition."

"How?" Logan turns from the window and comes back to the bed. The intensity of his expression scares me. "Logan, what's your idea? Come on, spill."

"Maybe tonight, at dinner. I think your dad wants to hang out with you this afternoon. At least that's what he said at breakfast—something about 'daddy-daughter time' since you don't have to work today. I'll tell you both my idea tonight; I'm still figuring out the details."

I punch his arm. "Why must you always keep secrets from me?" Suddenly I grin. It feels so good to joke around a little.

"Ow." He rubs his shoulder ostentatiously. "I _was _going to bring you breakfast in bed and maybe suck your toes for a while until your dad got home. But now? I think I'm going to watch 'The Price Is Right'. Did you know that Bob Barker is retiring?"

"Ooh, toe-sucking."

"Did you hear what I said? Bob Barker is retiring. He's a Hollywood icon. Sheesh. Get with the program, Mars. Always focusing on the trivial stuff."

"There's nothing trivial about toe-sucking."

"Really?" He looks at me, wondering if I'm joking.

"I'm kidding!" Except I'm not. Simple little words: _Hold me. Make love to me._ Why are they so hard to say?

Logan says, a little too innocently, "Would you do me a favor? Could you put on those new high heeled shoes you bought in Chicago?"

I play along. "With what outfit?"

He leans over and whispers in my ear. "Nothing at all. Completely nude. Stark naked."

I whisper back, "Did you know I brought your favorite bra with me? It was quite a sacrifice; I had to choose between it and a very special pair of socks that Lilly gave me for my birthday." _C'mon, c'mon! Don't you get it? I'm flirting! Don't you want to be with me again?_

Logan rolls his eyes. "Well, I'm glad my favorite lingerie's more important that a pair of _socks_." Very casually, he asks, "Are you talking about the purple bra?"

And then he winks, and I'm flooded with endorphins. Banter—it's the one thing we're great at. So I punch him again. "I've never had a purple one! The black one, you idiot. Remember? After the Radiohead concert?"

"Hmm." He rubs his arm and pretends to think. "Low-cut lace, with a little bow? Hooks in the back? Performs amazing feats of gravity-defying support? Mm, cleavage. I have fond memories of taking that bra off you."

I smile, the good memory and our easy repartee attenuating our sadness for the moment. _I do feel a tiny bit better today. One whole night without a nightmare._ "Hmm. I definitely recall you struggling with the clasp that night."

"You _lie_. There's not a bra in this world that I can't unhook in under two seconds."

"Oh, that sounds like a challenge."

He rubs his thumb and forefinger together and then flicks them open. "Bra-lapalooza 2007?"

I shoot back, "That's totally off the hook."

He snorts. "You're on. Have your manager call my manager to set it up." Logan stands up and stretches, a little creakily. It's obvious that Dad's blows hurt him more than a little. "So, breakfast, what's it going to be? Scrambled eggs or cereal?"

I'm crushed that he doesn't intend to take advantage of our time alone to make love to me again. It's my fault—I'm too scared to throw myself at him; how's he going to know what I want if I can barely embrace him for fear of another trip to my porcelain safety zone? A little banter is all I can muster up to let him know what I want, and it's a pathetic attempt at foreplay. The thought that he might reject my caress, even out of trepidation or misplaced concern, nauseates me. I'm such a coward._  
_  
But at the same time I'm certain it's not just me who's afraid. He's jittery after the fistfight, and I know he's obsessing about our problems, just like I am. Maybe he even regrets making love to me yesterday. So, returning his smile, I conceal my heartache. "I can make my own breakfast, you know. I'm not a fragile little baby."

"Unh-unh. Your dad gave me specific orders that you were to take it easy today." I fight back a giggle as he pulls up the blankets up and tucks me in again, the covers drawn overly tight and restricting my movements. "I plan on delivering you to him in your currently pristine condition."

"Pristine? You're making me a _mummy_!" I protest.

"Yeah. Exactly. But you're safe. What's it going to be?"

"Eggs, but—"

"I know. No eggshells. I think I've figured it out." He plants a kiss on my forehead and disappears out of the bedroom.

•••••

I sit in the passenger seat of the car Dad borrowed from his boss as we drive toward Raleigh. Apparently, the landlord is pretty ecstatic to have such a responsible employee, so he'd offered the use of a car so that Dad could run errands for the apartment building. And Dad had announced that he'd gotten permission to use the car for our "surprise" today.

"Where are we going?" I ask, for the thousandth time.

"It's a surprise," he replies, as he did every other time. He turns to me and smiles, that familiar beaming expression I'm used to, but underneath I can't help but see that awful rage from last night.

_'WHAT DID HE DO? WHAT DID HE DO?' And then a fist moving fast, and Logan slumping to the floor._

"How do you feel today?" Dad asks.

I tense. _Is his smile fake? Does he usually show his teeth that way? His brow is a little furrowed; is that normal for Dad?_ "What do you mean?" I ask, stalling.

"I mean, How. Do. You. Feel." He huffs a little laugh. _A little chuckle to put me at ease? Would Dad really be that deceitful? To a stranger, sure, but to me?_

"I'm good."

He sighs. "Veronica, did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah, no nightmares. Why won't you tell me where we're going?"

Frowning, he gazes at me. _Appraising my mental condition? Deciding what the hell to do with me? _"You love surprises, honey—what's the matter with you? Usually by now, you'd be guessing that I'd finally gotten you that pony you've always wanted."

"Nothing's the matter," I rush to say. "I slept really well. Really, Dad, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry I got so upset last night. And I'll never forgive myself for hitting him, especially after what Aaron put him through." He sounds sincere.

"I know. It's okay."

"I think you're going to feel a lot better after today." Dad concentrates on the road, peering at the unfamiliar road signs and consulting directions written on the back of an envelope. "Logan thought it was a good idea too."

_'We were trying to figure out if you needed a doctor. Maybe a hospital. You scared us.'_

_Oh god. Oh god, ohgod, ohgodohgod. _"Daddy, I swear, I'm going to be okay. Please don't take me to a hospital."

"What?"

"I don't need to see a shrink. I just...I just got a little, I don't know, I'm tired, I guess—"

"Veronica!" Dad wrenches the steering wheel to the right and pulls the car off the road as the car behind us honks furiously. He slots the gearshift into park and scoots across the seat to take me into his arms. "We're not going to a doctor. I wanted it to be a surprise...but we're going to one of those family fun centers. Go-karts, batting cages, videogames, and all the crappy junk food you want. Daddy-daughter time, like we used to do when you were younger. You haven't had any fun in ages, and I thought it might cheer you up."

"You're not just saying that so I'll calm down until we get to the hospital?"

"Jesus, Veronica!" He clasps me even tighter. "I swear."

_And now he's probably reconsidering his plan and wishing he _was _taking me to a doctor._ "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"I _am_ worried about you, honey. But I thought that just forgetting about all our problems for an afternoon might be the best medicine of all. Remember how we used to race go-karts on Sunday mornings?"

When Mom was hungover, Dad would get us out of the house rather than walk on eggshells until she felt human again. "Yeah, you're right," I reply listlessly. "Sounds like fun."

"At some point, we're going to talk about everything. But don't you think it might help to just be silly for a few hours?"

"What if somebody recognizes us?"

"No one's going to recognize us. I'd worry if we were in a bus terminal or a train station. But no one's going to be looking for us in a place like this." He falls silent. "...Maybe we should do this another time, and you should just get some more sleep—"

"No, I'm all right." I've got to prove to him that I'm not a whackjob. Feeling wretched, I smile at him and try to keep my voice steady. "You're right, this is exactly what I need."

•••••

It turns out that Father Does Know Best. Because after I kick his ass racing go-karts and he schools me in batting, I feel a little bit like Veronica Mars again. 'Family Time Fun Palace' is neon and glass, filled with the sounds of two-stroke motors revving, aluminum bats connecting, and videogame theme music on endless repeat. The place is swarming with kids attending birthday parties and divorced dads trying to win the love of their noncustodial offspring, and it feels so normal that I can actually breathe. We might be a little older than the average clientele, but no one looks at us twice, and I actually scream with delight when I beat my old man at air hockey.

Dad and I have bought a dinner of bacon cheeseburgers and nachos dripping with the fake cheese stuff. There's not a bit of nutrition in our choices, and I wolf it all down with a cherry cola as he looks on approvingly.

With his mouth full, he mutters, "Maybe you just had a deficiency of orange food coloring."

"Excuse me?" I retort.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Annato, the stuff they use to color cheese. It's well known that you'll go crazy without it."

I stick my tongue out at him. And then I laugh, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to be here joking around with my dad.

He pretends to look thoughtful. "Then again, I might be confusing that with Vitamin C."

"Vitamin C deficiency causes scurvy. You know, like pirates?"

"Arrr. Avast, me matey. Have some more processed cheese-food, honey. Who's your daddy?"

It's been forever since we've done this routine, but I know my line by heart. "You are."

•••••

After a final rematch on the go-kart course, where I prove my superiority once again, we leave the Fun Palace and head back toward Chapel Hill.

"Feel like talking a little?" Dad asks.

"Yeah. Sure."

He pulls into the parking lot of a busy shopping mall and cuts the engine. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally, I say, "It starts when I'm running away from Brown Suit Guy, outside of Navy Pier."

I tell him my whole nightmare. It takes a long time, because I have to keep explaining. Things that I should have told him ages ago: what Mercer said and did that night in Benes Hall, how I'd investigated my sex video, confronting Domonick Desanti and Gory. Then how I'd recruited my friends to help me and inadvertently put them and Logan in harm's way. And the way I'd ruined Dad's life with my stupid vendetta. All the details I'd left out when I supposedly told him everything the night before we left Neptune. He doesn't say much, just hugs me and keeps murmuring, "It's going to be okay."

And then I start telling him how I'd investigated my rape junior year, and that's when I start to cry. I hide my face in his chest so he can't see me as I talk, and his arms snake around me, pressing me to him, like he'll never ever let me go.

I tell him everything: discovering that Logan had brought the drugs, and then questioning everyone who'd been at the party. Sifting all the information, assessing the truthfulness of the people who used to be my friends. Willing myself to remember, and driving myself crazy assimilating the snippets of truth with my actual memories. Imagining what had happened while I was drugged and helpless. And then putting it together that it had been Duncan, and confronting and eventually forgiving him, only to have the rug pulled out from under me a year later on the roof.

My sobs finally cease with a last little hiccup, and he says, "I understand why you didn't tell me. You're probably right; I would've interrogated every boy in the school." His voice is so gentle it makes me start crying again. "But I wish I'd known, because I also would've tried to make it a little easier for you. I can't imagine how awful it was to suspect your friends. And then, when you found out about Cassidy...oh, Veronica, I just hate that you went through that alone."

"I wasn't alone. I had Logan."

"Except that Logan was involved. Can't you see that there's no way he could be your confidante?"

"I suppose. I had Mac, too, you know. Now that was an uncomfortable conversation, telling her that cute boy she'd been falling in love with wasn't just a mass murderer, but also a rapist." I'd thought at first that telling Mac that Beaver had completely fooled me as well would make her feel better, but she'd only been more depressed and upset about their tentative makeout sessions. At least she'd dodged the chlamydia bullet, I'd told her, and then regretted it when she ran out of the room to puke her guts out. Mac had had a shrink to talk to, so after that uncomfortable conversation, we'd skirted the subject by tacit agreement.

Dad grimaces. "You told Mac, but you couldn't tell me?" A slight edge to his voice, anger reined in. I feel his body tense, and his hug crushes me a little harder.

"You would have insisted I tell the sheriff's department. And there was no way I was going to Lamb again with that story."

"Burning in hell's too good for that— That cretin."

I wonder what he would have called Lamb to someone other than his daughter. "Agreed."

He sighs. I feel rather than see his appraising glance, and wonder what he's struggling to say. "So, uh, last night. I really couldn't sleep after what happened. And neither could Logan. We ended up talking until four a.m. He's pretty concerned about you—and about the two of you. I never thought I'd say this, but he really loves you. Claims he always has. Do you...do you know how you feel about him?"

I pull away from his embrace and sit up. _No good can come of this. _"Dad! I'm not discussing my lovelife with you. And I'd really rather you didn't discuss it with him either."

"Surely you can see that we're in a rather unique situation, and romantic complications...would complicate things."

"Surely? Don't call me Shirley. Geez, Dad." _A flip comment is always appropriate when your dad is trying to get the deets on your lovelife._

"Veronica. I'm serious. What's going on with you and him?"

Dad's not going to give up. And I see his point. He needs to be apprised, and maybe he can even help. After all, he was in a dysfunctional relationship for years. Codependent, they call it. Is that what Logan and I have? A _codependent_ relationship? _Oh, this is so awful. Let this be over. Please, let me wake up in Neptune, with my dad parentally oblivious to my romantic entanglements._

His fingers drum on the steering wheel—Dad's trying to figure out what to say to me. He thinks this is helping me. Before he can take a breath in to press me harder, I say, "I...I'm not really sure what's going on with us."

"He's worried you're getting involved with him again only because you feel guilty."

_'Involved'. Parent-speak for hooking up. Doin' the nasty._ I try to focus, but it feels insane to discuss primal urges with my parental unit. "Yeah, I know he's worried. He said that to me today. It feels like he's always asking me to prove that I love him."

"It's a lot of pressure. Here's the thing. You don't have a girlfriend to talk to about this stuff. I think you're going to have to talk to me about it."

"Oh god. Dad, no."

"Yeah, 'oh god'."

"I don't mean—"

"I get it."

We lapse into silence again. I watch the people hustling in and out of the shopping mall; so very normal, so wonderfully normal. They've got their phones pressed to their ears, talking to their friends. Moms wrestling with strollers and oversized shopping bags; a toddler perching on his dad's shoulders. Teenagers testing the limits of freedom, hiding things from their parents in the natural order of things.

If I don't say it, I'm going to explode. "Dad, I want to try to get our life back. You've got to let me investigate the Sorokins, or I'll go crazy."

"Veronica—"

"I got one of those wireless modems I told you about." I barrel right past his reflexive intake of air. "I haven't done anything with it yet. Please say that I can at least try to figure out why Gory's people were so intense in Chicago. I think my dream is trying to tell me something."

"I think your dream is telling you that you feel guilty about the man you shot."

"You mean the man I sent to the big gulag in the sky?" I ask sarcastically. "Of course I feel guilty."

"Honey, first of all, it was an accident. You weren't even aiming, you told us."

"Yeah, right. An accident. Shooting a gun at a person, and then being surprised because the bullet hit him. Yeah, that's an accident all right! Do you think he had a family? Kids? We don't even know. Anatoly Ponomarev got a toe tag because of me, and I don't even know if anybody's grieving for him."

"You might be dreaming about it because you need to talk about it."

"Arggh!" Hunching over, I rub my eyes with my fists and try to grind out my frustration. I sit up suddenly and yell at Dad, "I'm so fucking sick of hearing that. I'm talking! I'm talking!" I start to beat on him with my fists, and he grabs onto my wrists. I'm whimpering and sobbing, fighting against his grip, and he just lets me cry it out.

"Shh. Shh. It's going to be okay, Veronica. Shh."

Exhausted, I slump against him. He strokes my back for a long time, just letting me breathe in and out.

I mumble, "I miss Wallace. I miss Mac."

"I know you do."

"I'm so sorry about everything—"

"Shh, it's okay."

At last, he murmurs, "What do you say we go home?"

"Yeah. Let's go home." He kisses the top of my head and I sit up.

As he drives, I lean against his strong shoulder, his capable arm protecting me, for the moment anyways. I can't tell if I feel better for having talked to him; I just _feel_ so intensely right now that gradations of comfort are beyond my understanding. But I know that it felt good to set aside my worries for a few hours. "I had fun today."

"That's good. Fun is very good," he replies, squeezing my shoulder.

"I wish Logan could have come. He needs a fun day out too. You know, he's got some harebrained scheme he's been dreaming up. Some crazy way to get out of the country. Or else he wants to get plastic surgery on his face."

"It might come to that, Veronica. The press isn't letting up, and he can't stay hidden forever."

The thought of plastic surgery is depressing because it's so permanent—an admission that our lives are gone. I don't want to think about Logan with a new nose and chin. The disguises are bad enough. I run through a mental array of new faces for Logan, each one more disturbing than the last.

_All my fault._

Duncan's probably got a new face by now too. Maybe one day we'll all run into each other and none of us will recognize the others. And that depresses me even more.  
_  
_And then I realize: Dad never gave me an answer about using the modem.

Back at the apartment, Logan lets us in when I knock and call "Honeybun." I can see him assessing me as I sit down in the living room, and I'm too tired to deal with his smothering concern. It irks me to realize that he's exchanging glances with Dad, and I lash out. "I'm fine. You can ask me directly, you know. We had a lot of fun, and then we talked. Happy?"

"Um, not when you say it like that," Logan replies. "Honeybun."

"Sorry," I say. I mean it, but I'm still so cranky about the plastic surgery discussion that I can't really sound sorry. Logan gives me a questioning look, and I avert my eyes.

"We did have fun, but we missed you today," Dad says. "We wished you could have come too."

"Hey, I had a kickass frozen pizza and 'King of Queens' reruns on the tube to keep me company. I saved you a piece of pizza, honeybun."

"Call me that again, and I'm going to hurt you," I retort.

Logan plops down on the sofa next to me and extends his hand. I take it, and I feel the relief emanating from him in waves. He whispers, "Are you sure you're okay? You really talked?"

"Yeah. But can we not dissect it?"

"Okay, okay."

Dad takes the chair across from us, and I flash back to the evening before, Logan holding my hand before I launched into my tale of woe. My body tenses with the memory. Under my breath, I murmur, "Please, no more secrets. No more revelations."

"Huh?" Logan asks.

Aloud, I say, "So what's this plan you're cooking up? Come on. I waited all day. Patiently. Which is quite uncharacteristic for me."

Logan takes a deep breath. "We buy a sailboat and set sail for the Caribbean. We could get something decent for maybe fifty grand—the secondary market for boats is really depressed. We register it under a corporation so it can't be traced to us. My da— Aaron always did that so it was harder for the paparazzi to find them."

Dad muses, "They're not as strict with boat registrations as cars. And it's harder to patrol an open ocean."

Logan adds, "And then we set sail, heading east for Bermuda, and then south to the Caribbean. Specifically, Cuba. There's no extradition to the U.S."

"It's not quite that easy," Dad says. "Cuba's not the fugitives' paradise people think it is, unless you have unlimited funds, which we don't have."

"Uh, Dad, did you hear him say 'Bermuda'?" I turn to Logan. "Are you talking about sailing into the Bermuda Triangle? With two people who don't know how to sail? Isn't that kind of, you know, _insane_? When we were talking about a boat back in Neptune, we were thinking a motorboat, and we wouldn't have been far offshore."

Logan is shaking his head. "It would take too long if we stayed close to shore. The winds are in the wrong direction. It's better to go east to Bermuda, and then south, like a..." He hesitates. "Like a triangle. And if we're going to beat the hurricane season, we'd have to make a run for it soon, and then get into a protected harbor once we're down there. Otherwise, we'd have to wait until November."

"Hurricanes? You _are _insane," I pronounce.

"I know how to sail, Veronica," Dad says. "Maybe we should think about this."

"Dad, you haven't sailed since I was born. And my experience is holding the tiller for Duncan while he peed over the side."

"I've done that route," Logan persists. "Well, at least to Bermuda, which is the hardest part because you have to cross the gulf stream. There's a yacht race every year in June, and Enbom's dad took me and John along a couple times. Three to six days to Bermuda, and then from Bermuda, it's a beam reach all the way to the Virgin Islands. Which means an easy sail—maybe another week to ten days depending on the wind. I've sailed with my parents all over the Caribbean. Bareboat charters, they call it. My parents were always half in the bag by noon, but I loved it, so I did most of the skippering. I can do this. I can show you guys what to do. We'd watch the weather before we left, and wait until we had favorable conditions."

"Don't people die sailing offshore?" I persist. It's scaring the crap out of me that Dad seems to be actually listening to this ridiculous plan.

"When did you lose your nerve?" Logan asks me.

"You got a lot of balls saying that. You've been accusing me of being reckless for the last year. Now I'm being responsible, and you're the crazy one."

"Okay, if we're going to stay here, then I think I need to have some plastic surgery done. I can't hide anymore. I'm losing my mind." The desperation is apparent in Logan's voice.

It feels like the walls are closing in on me again. My breathing is weird and unregulated, and I'm hot and cold simultaneously, with my palms sweating and my face flushing. My eyes flutter shut, and the next thing I know, Dad is leaning over me, his hand grasping mine. "Veronica? Stay with me. Logan, get her a glass of water. Veronica, you need to slow your breathing. Count: in for four, out for four. Come on, do it with me. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four."

Logan sets a glass of water down in front of me. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll drop it. It was a stupid idea."

The controlled breathing helps, and now I feel like an idiot. "You're not crazy. I shouldn't have said that."

Dad says quietly, "It's worth discussing. Right now, we've effectively disappeared. We can assume that the easy border crossings—airports, cruise ships, bridges, places like that—still have us on a watch list. And if we'd tried to leave by boat from Neptune, I think the Coast Guard would have caught us. But they can't patrol the entire East Coast. And a small sailboat on the open ocean would be very hard to detect."

"If one of you gets hurt, I'd never forgive myself," I say. "I don't care how many times you deny it, this _is_ my fault. And, Logan, you've been telling me for days that you think lying low here is our best option."

"Lying low here is better than trying to blackmail the mob the way you want to do. And you know that I'm listening to your dad because I think he knows what he's doing. He's been tracing fugitives for a living, and if anyone can hide us, he can." Logan sounds persuasive, even passionate. "But I don't think I can exist hiding in a basement apartment for the rest of my life. Can we at least talk about trying to start over in another country? From the Caribbean, we could try to go anywhere in the world. Somewhere where our money would last a long time. Somewhere where I can have a life, too."

"Does it have to be all or nothing?" I ask. "Let me access the Internet, see what I can find out. And you act like you're going to be able to the grocery store and pick out a boat—isn't it going to be a little difficult to find a decent used boat? You know what would help with that? The Internet. And then once we have some information, we can make a decision together."

Dad sighs. "This Tor protocol you talked about. You're completely certain it masks our IP location?"

"Yes, Dad. I'm certain."

Dad looks thoughtful. "If we're going to try this sailboat idea, I think it should be unanimous. We all agree that it's our best option, or else we don't do it."

Logan nods, and I say, "Absolutely."

"Get the modem. I want to see this Tor in action before I set you loose on the world wide web."

Frowning at him, I get the modem and our laptop. I boot up, plug in the modem, and start the Tor program. It's ridiculous, but I imagine Jake Kane hunched over a keyboard in Pemberton Estates, tenting his fingertips like Monty Burns and waiting for us to step into a trap. Dad watches the screen intently; Logan pulls up a chair so he can look over my shoulder. I go to a Google start page and ask, "Where first?"

"The Neptune Register," Dad says tersely.

There's a slight delay as our keystrokes fly electronically through multiple nodes around the world, covering our tracks the way we did on the Greyhounds. Finally, the page loads; it's a kick in the gut to see the familiar masthead. The three of us silently scan the day's headlines.

My voice is a little shaky. "What the hell is going on in Neptune?"


	22. Chapter 22: Paternity

**TITLE:** Paternity (22/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 4,585  
**RATING:** R for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and celtic-flicka. All remaining errors are my responsibility.  
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating. I'm hoping to start posting regularly again.

* * *

Last time on 'Precipitation':

_Veronica discloses to her dad about being roofied and rape and subsequently experiences a dissociative crisis during the ensuing argument between Keith and Logan. The next morning, Veronica and Logan discuss their issues, but Veronica's tentativeness and fear overwhelms her desire to be intimate with Logan, and they narrowly avoid fighting again._

_Keith has a surprise for Veronica: he has decided that what she needs is a fun day at a "game center", where they manage to forget everything for a few hours. On the way home, they stop and she finally tells her father everything she's hidden from him in the past, including the details of her rape and her investigation of it. Her dad tells Veronica that she's going to need to confide in him because she doesn't have a best girlfriend any more. Squirming, Veronica says that it feels like Logan is always asking her to prove that she loves him._

_Back in the apartment, Logan announces that he's been working on a plan to flee the country by sailboat to the Caribbean. Keith seems interested, but Veronica is too upset at the thought of one of them getting hurt to consider the idea seriously. She presses again to be allowed to use the Internet, using the excuse that it will help with the sailboat plan, and her dad reluctantly agrees. They surf to the Neptune Register web site and are shocked by the headlines._

* * *

The three of us scan the headline blaring across the top of the Neptune Register web site.

******TWO DEAD, ELEVEN INJURED IN THIRD  
GANG CLASH IN TWO WEEKS.**

_Death toll reaches five in Neptune's gang violence epidemic. Racial tensions at their highest level in years as murder charges are filed against two members of the PCH Bike Club._

The article goes on to detail that an additional eight Latino suspects were arrested on charges ranging from assault to attempted murder, while fifteen men with suspiciously Irish names were merely detained and released on misdemeanor charges such as weapons possession and criminal trespass. A demonstration at City Hall by Latino residents protesting the arrests was broken up by sheriff's deputies, with ten citizens treated and released at Neptune Memorial for minor injuries.

I notice Dad picking at the skin on his thumb again; he's upset, but clearly trying to hide it. To keep me—_fragile Veronica_—from losing it, I'm guessing. He clears his throat and breaks the silence. "It's a power vacuum. The Fitzpatricks are taking the opportunity to solidify their grip on Neptune, making sure they control all the drugs going in and out. Meanwhile, I wouldn't be surprised if the Mexican mafia has the same idea. Balboa County will be a battle zone. And whichever side wins, Neptune's going to become the main gateway for drugs to come into the U.S. from Tijuana."

In a sidebar, a statement from Vinnie twists the knife. 'Interim Sheriff Mars allowed this criminal element to establish a foothold in our fair town by focusing his efforts on lifestyle issues such as underage drinking. Crime statistics make it clear that burglary and assault rates began to rise during the Mars administration. The sheriff's department is working 24/7 to rectify the mistakes made by the previous administration. Our priority now is the safety of all the residents of Neptune as we work to rid ourselves of these interlopers.'

I feel sick at the injustice of it, that Dad's being blamed for all this. "What an asshole. What d'you wanna bet all the deputies are being deployed in the 90909 zip code?"

"Actually, I'm betting most of the wealthy residents have engaged their own security." Dad points at a prominent ad for Safehouse Security. "Vinnie has a 'relationship' with Safehouse. I'm sure he's steering a lot of business to them."

"So he allows the crime rate to skyrocket and then gets a commission when nervous 09ers hire private security."

"No, I'm sure it's even more scandalous than that." Dad looks incredibly weary, with the toll of the last few weeks of stress etched on his face. "Vinnie spent a fortune on this campaign, a surprisingly large amount for a guy paying three alimonies who never even had a single campaign fundraiser. I suspected that the Fitzpatricks were backing Vinnie for sheriff, with money and a coordinated effort to make me look incompetent. That's the reason the burglary rate skyrocketed before the election. And now, Vinnie's being paid to look the other way as Liam's crew pillages Neptune. If our new sheriff is selectively prosecuting the PCHers, as it appears, the Fitzpatricks will soon have a complete stranglehold on the town."

New information that I'd never had, but of course it makes sense. Everything is rigged in Neptune, from Aaron's trial all the way down to the meter maids who skip over BMWs in favor of rustbuckets with Spanish bumperstickers. "Liam bankrolled Vinnie's campaign? You didn't tell me that. Dad, why didn't you—"

"I didn't want to worry you, Veronica." Dad's eyes slide away from me. He was always trying to protect me. What else didn't he tell me?

"But won't Vinnie get tossed out on his ass on the next election?" Logan asks.

Dad sighs. "In four years of a Van Lowe administration, Neptune will be destroyed. Vinnie will have lined his pockets, probably to the tune of millions. As long as he doesn't do anything to trigger a recall election, he's all set for life."

"That's if he's not stupid enough to double-cross Liam," I say.

"You know it's possible that Liam presented this to Vinnie as an offer he couldn't refuse." Dad scrolls the screen down, looking at other articles.

"Remember the good old days, when all we had to worry about was the Vinnie special?" Logan looks confused, so I explain. "If a suspicious wife hired Vinnie to get pictures of her cheating husband, Vinnie would get the money shot and sell it to the husband for double instead."

Dad pauses his scrolling, skimming an article about the Sharks baseball team, who are tearing it up in their first complete season post-Woody Goodman. "You know, this whole last year, whenever I was working a case where the Fitzpatricks were involved, Vinnie would always turn up as well."

I flash back to finding Vinnie at the River Stix, looking very 'at home' back in November when I was helping Meryl. I'd thought he was on a routine case, but maybe he was just checking in with the boss.

Dad continues, "As Vinnie got in deeper and deeper with Liam, he might not have been able to refuse when Liam announced that Vinnie should run for sheriff. My gut tells me that the Fitzpatricks were providing all the money that was being pumped into the sheriff's election—the attack ads and billboards, the phone campaign. The numbers were trending very badly the last two weeks before the election."

"They were? You told me that everything was fine." I see a familiar name as Dad scrolls. "Wait, go back." 'The sheriff's department has released a statement that the fire at Navarro Auto Wrecking on May 18th has been deemed arson.' My heart pounds..._can't be, can't be, please don't be—_"That's Weevil's uncle." The article states that Angel Navarro suffered minor burns during the fire and authorities had cleared him of involvement in the incident. There's no mention of Weevil, but I can't shake an image of him flailing in a smoke-filled room, flames licking at his feet as he tries to run.

"A fire? More gang fighting?" Logan asks.

Dad shakes his head. "To what purpose? Why burn a junkyard?"

"No...I think it was Gory. May 18 was two days after we left. They were trying to make Weevil tell them what car we were driving. Jesus, what if Weevil had been at the junkyard when they set the fire—" My stomach heaves, and I make it to the bathroom just in time before I throw up.

Hot dogs and nacho chips aren't nearly as nice on the way up.

•••••

Dad gets to me first, and as he helps clean me up, he keeps murmuring, "It's not your fault, honey." He closes the toilet, setting me down on the lid and washing my face with a washcloth as if I were a toddler. Logan looks on, hovering. Dad says, "With everything going on in Neptune now, you can't assume that it was Gory who set the fire. You just don't know."

I'm trembly and lightheaded as I picture Gory torturing poor Weevil because of me. "I _do_ know it was Gory. And I don't believe you about the pre-election polling. I think it was what _I_did that lost the election. So all this gang violence? I'm responsible for that too. Five dead, eighteen injured, the paper said, all since the election."

"Veronica, I swear to you...honey, listen to me. The polls were bad. I'm certain Liam was backing Vinnie's campaign. I'm not lying to you."

Logan stops wavering from foot to foot and sits down on the edge of the tub. I can't stand his look of concern and my eyes screw shut. I heave a sigh, and he murmurs, "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No, it's all right...just...don't look at me like you're so _worried_." It's taking every bit of self-control not to burst into tears and he's not helping.

"I'm sorry—"

"Just...god, I don't know what I want." I concentrate on my breathing again and that lump of concrete in my chest dissolves a little. Under teary lashes, I see Dad hunkering down onto the tile floor next to the commode. "Dad, don't...your back...you won't be able to get up. I'll be all right, let's go back out to the living room."

Drawing his legs up to get comfortable, he pats my knee. "You guys will help me up. Just breathe and relax. Everything's going to be fine."

Here we are, in my porcelain sanctuary. It's claustrophobic and ridiculous. It's crazy the way they're letting me off the hook. Forgiveness and understanding and...and just plain love. Dad's hand strokes my knee, a definite presence, a reassuring gesture that he's there, he's always going to be there.

"You swear you're telling the truth about the poll numbers?" I whisper.

"It's the absolute truth, Veronica. I started putting two and two together about Liam's involvement in the campaign long before the incident with the video. Leo alerted me to it; it's one of the reasons I rehired him. I'd hoped the polls were wrong, because I gotta tell you, it would have felt good to win that election. But one of the reasons I was so willing to—" He sighs. "I had no problem degaussing that video because I was pretty sure I wouldn't have that job after the vote, and it was a no-brainer to have my last official act be to protect you."

He's never put exactly what he'd done in words before. We've alluded to it, but he's never said it.

Dad sighs again and rests his forehead on his palm. "You know, if Jake Kane hadn't been pushing, there's no way that the investigation would have come to a head before the election. He forced my hand."

"Do you regret it?" I hate the quiver in my voice.

"It was the right decision at the time, Veronica."

"But now? Now that we've had to go on the run?"

Dad muses, "I thought it would be a slap on the wrist. It's not unheard of for evidence to get misfiled or damaged. And all I did was put a speaker next to the DVR. I updated the evidence logs, switching some filing numbers around, so that it looked like it was just a coincidence. The evidence room was a mess while Lamb was in charge, and I'd done a lot of work to clean it up, so I thought there was a good chance it'd fly."

"You're lucky it worked at all," I say. "A speaker magnet isn't a very reliable way to erase a DVR."

Logan clears his throat. "Maybe it didn't work, and if we show up in Neptune again, it'll be waiting for us."

"It doesn't matter," Dad replies. "The homeowner saw the recording when I took possession. Cliff indicated that the rumor mill said there was a witness. It has to be him. Your face couldn't be seen, but petite, long blonde hair—" He shrugs. "There aren't too many suspects who fit that description. And of course..." His voice trails off. But we all know what he means: El Dorado means we can never go home.

I'll never understand why Dad did what he did in Arkansas. _Why do people always help me, the same people that I treat like crap all the time— _"Oh my god. What about Mac and Wallace?" I ask, my voice trembling. "We've got to make sure they're all right! Maybe Gory went after them too." I rush out of the bathroom and hurry back to the laptop. By the time Logan's helped Dad up off the floor and they've joined me in the living room, I've pulled up a news story from a week ago.

A photo shows Mac and Wallace, accompanied by Cliff and their parents, leaving the sheriff's department. A short blurb announces that the sheriff was questioning associates of Veronica and Keith Mars to assist him in tracking down the fugitive ex-sheriff. "No stone will be left overturned to gather any moss in this investigation," Sheriff Van Lowe declared. "I won't rest until Keith Mars is behind bars for sullying the reputation of our fair city once again."

"Mac and Wallace were supposed to go to the FBI," I say, distressed. "So that they'd be safe."

"Maybe they did," Dad says. "Maybe no one believed them after Arkansas hit the news."

"Yeah, because we've been latent desperadoes all this time, just waiting for a chance to shoot off our guns and despoil evidence."

"Told you it wouldn't be good for your reputation to hang out with me," Logan observes. "I've obviously ruined you for life."

A flash of old snarky Logan, and it helps. I snort under my breath.

"Vinnie could be trying to pursue obstruction of justice charges," Dad says. He sees my look of horror and rushes to add, "But he probably won't succeed. There's very little evidence that Mac and Wallace did anything illegal, and I can't imagine the D.A. would pursue them. It's just harassment. The D.A. is just hoping that they have some useful information."

"What about Mac cracking the encryption on Jake's hard drive? They've got to know that I had help with that." I start to wonder if Mac's activities on the Hearst supercomputer could be reconstructed, and I feel panicky again.

Dad shakes his head. "Jake isn't going to let the contents of that hard drive become public—there's too many people in high places with too much to lose. Without the original hard drive, it would be difficult to reconstruct how the computer hacking occurred. It's pretty clear that this is an attempt by Vinnie to flush us out. With the hard drive back in Jake Kane's possession, and knowing that you probably kept a copy, I bet he and the rest of The Castle would prefer that this whole thing went away. Wallace and Mac are safe, Veronica. It's going to be okay."

"They _were _safe when this photo was taken," I reply. Suddenly I'm exhausted. We're going around in circles, and there's no possible solution. I don't even remember what I thought I would accomplish by running an Internet investigation. I sigh in defeat, too tired to argue with Dad about it. "I suppose the publicity they're getting might hinder Gory's efforts to intimidate them."

Dad nods thoughtfully. "You know, we could try to get in contact with Cliff again. Tell him to encourage Mac and Wallace to go to the FBI and ask for protection."

I push at my bangs wearily, the palm of my hand grinding into my forehead. "I don't know. I don't know anymore."

Dad is silent, obviously turning over the possibilities in his head. "You know, even if Gory was able to obtain the type of car we used by intimidating Weevil's uncle, it's clear that we've abandoned it now and made new plans. Our getaway vehicle was in all the news reports about Arkansas. As long as we don't contact anyone in Neptune, I think they're safe. What good would it do Gory to pressure Mac or Weevil about our whereabouts at this point?"

"I suppose you're right," I concede, feeling only slightly better about the situation.

"I vote we don't contact anyone in Neptune," Logan says.

"I want to look up the Sorokins. I want to know..." _What they're capable of. What they've done to witnesses. _"I want to see what we're up against."

"It's getting late. Let's sleep on it," Dad suggests. "You've had a long day. You can research the Russian mafia some more in the morning."

I shake my head. "I'm not going to be able to sleep worrying about it."

"Honey," Dad replies.

I avoid looking at his worried face and type "Sorokin Russian mafia" into Google. The first result resembles a fan site for Russian mobsters, with a head shot and brief bio for each man. Sergei Sorokin (b. 1952) and Lev Sorokin (b. 1955) are listed as members of a criminal syndicate ("Kuruskaya Bratva") located near St. Petersburg, with offshoots in New York City and Los Angeles.

There's nothing very surprising about their lurid histories, but reading their biographies makes me feel a little nauseated again. They were brutal men, hardened into sociopaths by the Soviet gulag system. After a youth filled with petty crime that gradually worsened to outright murder by the time he was sixteen, Sergei Sorokin was imprisoned from 1970 to 1974 and again from 1978 to 1985. He was released from the gulags and granted refugee status under the guise of the Russian-Jewish refugee program.

After a short period living in Israel, Sergei relocated to Los Angeles in 1987, where he married Ulyana Grabianko and bore two sons, Gorya and Maxim. Since moving to the U.S., he has amassed a chain of dry cleaning establishments and several restaurants in the greater Los Angeles area.

His younger brother Lev Sorokin, convicted of numerous charges of assault, organized prostitution, and murder, was also incarcerated in the gulags at an early age but did not pursue refugee status when he was released in 1984. In the late eighties, when the restrictions on privately owned companies were eased under Gorbachev, Lev was believed to have created a lucrative enterprise that was a front for organized prostitution and money laundering. After the Soviet Union's collapse, Lev was the mastermind behind a scheme of large-scale manipulation of fuel prices that made him a multimillionaire.

Lev emigrated to the United States in 1995 and settled in San Francisco, where he used his vast wealth to establish a large import-export conglomerate that is estimated to have earnings in the millions each year. I scroll the page down and up again, but there's no more information about the brothers.

"That's it? What about after they moved to the U.S.?" Logan asks. "You can't really think they went legit after they came here."

"Except for dumping a body in a lake, of course." I type in the URL for the California criminal records database Dad usually uses. I look over my shoulder, and Dad nods his assent, so I hit return and begin pulling up records on the two Sorokins, focusing on Sergei, Gory's father, first.

"A bunch of arrests. No convictions until 2006..." Dad begins.

"Sergei served eighteen months at Lompoc for money laundering and tax evasion. He was released a couple months ago." I google again and look up the press coverage of Sergei Sorokin's trial. "Whoa. 'Lev Sorokin, convicted last year of the murder of Niccolo Giordano, testified against his brother Sergei today to reduce his own sentence from life without parole to twenty-five years, eligible for parole in fifteen with good behavior. Lev ("The Lion") Sorokin detailed Sergei's numerous financial transactions that violated federal money laundering statutes.'"

I open another tab and pull up the top result for 'murder Niccolo Giordano' and skim the article until I encounter the sentence, 'The dismembered body of Giordano was found encased in garbage bags in a lake adjacent to a Marin county property owned by Lev Sorokin.' "Oh my god. Holy shit. This is it. Dismembered body, this is what Gory was talking about in the video."

Dad's face is grim as he leafs through the notes on the confessions that Logan has been transcribing. "Gory was in the pledge class of 2004. So by 2005, Lev had been convicted of that crime. Based on what Gory said on the tape, it sounds like Lev took the rap alone. But according to this, a year later Lev decided to cut his sentence and took down his brother Sergei."

"So what the hell?" Logan asks. He's been quiet, watching us work and content to let us use our expertise without his usual snark. "If someone's already been convicted of that crime, why do they care so much if we know about it?"

While he's talking, I switch back to the criminal records database and pull up Lev's record. "Lev died. He was knifed in prison in November of 2006."

"Was anyone convicted of that murder?" Dad asks.

They watch intently as I search for five minutes. Although I locate a few articles about Lev's death, I can't find a record of anyone being charged in connection with the knifing.

"It was his brother," Logan mutters. "Had to be. Sergei paid him back for ratting."

"Probably not Sergei himself—he was at a different prison. But yeah, I think you're right, Sergei ordered the hit," Dad says. "Russian thieves have a code called 'Vory v Zakone'. You don't rat out anyone. They aren't ever supposed to cooperate with authorities, not even the military. The bond among thieves is even stronger than family."

I nod. Logan's words come back to me. _'What are you going to do if you find something, Veronica, blackmail the mob?'_ I thought I'd feel a little more in control with some good old investigating, but the truth is that the world is whirling more crazily out of control by the second.

•••••

After another hour spinning our wheels trying to investigate the Sorokins, we give up and head to bed, no closer to a solution than when we started. While Logan is in the bathroom, I sit in front of the crackled mirror and brush my hair. I try different hairstyles, hating them all, along with the annoying color I'd adopted in Chicago.

And my mind races, playing the rewind game. If only I'd aimed when I shot at the Russian mobster in Chicago. If I hadn't stolen the hard drive from Jake Kane. If I'd let it go when the video surfaced. Or further back, if I hadn't gotten naked with Piz that day. Or even further, if I hadn't broken up with Logan over Madison. What the hell...I could have just said we needed a little time apart while I processed it.

What's true is that I couldn't care less about that drunken hookup now, and that's a really odd feeling, to forgive and forget. A little perspective does wonders. _Be honest, Veronica...what if you'd trusted Logan this past year, instead of looking for his faults and sins?_

Logan approaches over my shoulder and I shake myself out of my fog. "What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"The rewind game. You know, thinking about what I _should _have done. How I should have let it go when the video was going around. How I shouldn't have broken up with you." I can't quite say 'I should have trusted you.' Yet.

He rubs my shoulders, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "I know that game really well. I feel like I've been playing it for the last three years. If I hadn't broken up with Lilly, she wouldn't have been with my father that day."

"Logan, no—"

"And then if I hadn't slept with Madison, you and I wouldn't have broken up either. So..." He shrugs. "All my fault, all of it."

"You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, we are. Come on, let's at least pretend to sleep." His hand on my shoulder encourages me over to the bed. Lying down, he pulls me into his arms and rubs my back. "Was it hard talking to your dad today?"

Four hours ago we were parked in a mall parking lot talking about all my secrets—it seems a long time ago that I spilled my guts to dad. There's nothing like the Russian mafia to teach you what's really important. I probe those old memories and obfuscations, and I think about how I swore I'd never tell my dad what happened, that I wouldn't have been able to bear it and—

Logan breaks my silence. "You don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No, it's okay. I'm just, well, I guess I'm figuring out how I feel about it. I don't understand why I was so scared to tell him. I feel better, I think. It's weird not to have the weight of that between us, that huge thing that I could never tell him. I even told Dad about how I investigated my own rape, that I'd suspected you at first."

He stays silent and just keeps rubbing my back.

"That feels good." I stifle a yawn. "Can we not talk about this stuff right now?"

"Did you have any fun at all today?"

"Are you kidding? It was a blast." I tell him about the go-karts and the batting cages in detail, and then, noticing that his breathing is steady and his eyelids have fallen shut, I stop talking and just bathe in his nearness. The rhythm of my breaths begins to synchronize with his, and I tumble into that nebulous space between awake and asleep.

_...it's going to be okay...I wish I'd known, because I also would've tried to make it a little easier for you...I killed a man...I'll try not to push you away like I always do...don't you dare call it sex, you couldn't give consent...What are you going to do if you find something, Veronica, blackmail the mob?...I can't tell my dad, he'll never look at me the same...if I hadn't slept with Madison...if I hadn't stolen the hard drive...you really think Jake Kane would send mobsters across the country to gun us down?...I'm having a rough day, and you're pissing me off...I can't exist hiding in a basement apartment...if only I'd taken the time to aim...I fought for you, goddammit, doesn't that mean anything?...Was it hard talking to your dad today?...I don't understand why I was so scared to tell him...you know what we want. what did you do with the hard drive?...I don't understand why I was so scared to tell him...that huge thing that I could never tell him...I don't understand why I was so scared to tell him..._

"Gory," I breathe, my eyelids fluttering open. "Gory was scared that his father would find out what he did." I shake Logan awake. "I figured it out." Without waiting for him, I rush to the living room, where Dad is snoring on the sleeper sofa. "Dad...Dad!"

"What's wrong?" He's clearly on alert almost before his eyes are completely open. Dad throws off the blankets and scans the apartment, an instinctive reaction.

"I figured it out. Gory is terrified that his _father _will find out that he spilled his guts on a video. He's not worried we'll go to the feds; he's scared that his dad will find out."

It takes Dad a second to catch up, and then he nods. "Yeah. Especially for something as frivolous as a fraternity."

"Didn't you say something about the Russian code dictating that you must never cooperate with an authority?" Logan asks. "Imagine if Sergei found out that Gory cooperated with a bullshit authority like The Castle. If Sergei would kill his own brother..."

Dad says, "Yeah, the code says that loyalty to other thieves is higher than family."

"It might even be worse that that. Maybe someone in The Castle who had access to the confessions leaked Gory's confession to the feds, and that's why his Uncle Lev was convicted and turned informant on his dad," I say. "Gory's a dead man if his father finds out about this video."


	23. Chapter 23: Premeditation

**TITLE:** Premeditation (23b/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 4,102**  
RATING:** PG13, maybe R for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. ** WARNINGS:** Cursing, sexual situations.**  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. An early version of this was beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.**  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating.

**_For the NC17 version of this chapter, replace 6429260/23/ with 8479517/1/ in the URL._**

* * *

_In Neptune, an all-out war rages between the Fitzpatricks and the PCHers, with Sheriff Van Lowe seeming to be focusing his efforts on prosecuting only the Latino gang members. Vinnie is blaming the crime spree on Sheriff Mars's administration, and Keith theorizes that Vinnie is working with Liam Fitzpatrick, who appeared to have bankrolled Vinnie's successful for sheriff. In addition, it's likely that, with the current power vacuum, Neptune will become the main entry point for drugs coming into the U.S._

_They discover that a suspicious fire was set at the junkyard belonging to Weevil's uncle shortly after they fled Neptune, and Veronica immediately surmises that it's the work of Gory. Mac and Wallace are under suspicion for possibly having helped Veronica, Logan, and Keith elude arrest._

_Veronica insists on looking up information on the Sorokins, and both Gory's father Sergei and his uncle Lev were refugees from Soviet Russia, hardened criminals who had been in the gulags and later relocated to California. Lev had been convicted of the murder referenced by Gory on the Castle video, and to shorten his sentence, he testified against his brother Sergei in a racketeering probe. Shortly thereafter, Lev was killed in prison, and they conclude that Sergei was likely behind the murder as retribution for Lev breaking the Russian thieves' code of silence, Vory v Zakone._

_Veronica realizes that Gory was not afraid that the video would be sent to the authorities, but rather that his own father would discover that he'd told a family secret to a fraternity. And a man who would kill his brother for ratting might very well kill his own son for the same crime, especially for something as trivial as the Castle._

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three: Premeditation

Snippets of last night's hushed argument about Gory needle me into consciousness. It's early, barely light in the bedroom, and Logan slumbers next to me. He'd argued passionately for sending The Castle video straight to Gory's father—_fry the bastard_, he'd said—and he'd been completely confused by my apprehension.

The thing is that I've already killed a man. There are times when I can convincingly claim that Ponomarev's death was an accident. Well, when I'm being rational I can see it that way. But this would be premeditated murder, just like...

_...You are not a killer, Veronica..._

It's just like Beaver stepping off the roof in slow-motion as we pull away the net, and then we have to somehow live with ourselves forever as he pinwheels down, car alarms blaring and the heavy thwunk of flesh meeting something solid. Judge, jury, and executioner, that's what we were that night.

No. _No._It didn't happen like that. Not quite.

..._Beaver, don't..._

How many seconds of your finger tightening on the trigger before it actually becomes premeditated? How many milliseconds of doing nothing to stop Beaver before it becomes your fault? I always imagine that little monster roasting on a slow-turning spit in hell, braised and sizzling. Is it my fault he jumped? I say no. Most days, at least. Beaver had a choice. I didn't shoot him. We gave him an option, told him "Don't!"

No. That was most definitely _not _premeditated murder.

_(...then why does it still bother me?...shut up, shut up, shut up...)_

Anatoly Ponamarev, however... _Him or me, him or me, him or me_—my mantra that keeps me just this side of sanity. And to rat out Gory to his Dad feels pretty goddamned purposeful, more purposeful than a random blind shot around the side of a gazebo. _Him or us, him or us, him or us._I'd have to expand my repertoire. My brain synapses hurt just thinking about it, and the gnawing in my stomach ratchets up again.

And Dad understands how I feel. He hasn't declared a preference, but he laid out all our options last night. Option number one: Do nothing, and continue hiding. Try to figure something else out. Or number two: Send the video to the FBI, and maybe the feds would reopen the case against Gory's father. But that would probably only anger Gory even more, he'd pointed out. And the last option—send the video to Sergei Sorokin. Show him just what his son was doing at that fancy private school.

We'd be signing Gory's death warrant, at the hands of his father. And for what? We still couldn't go back to Neptune, unless we surrendered ourselves to the authorities. Stylin' orange jumpsuits and shoes without laces, how very fashion forward.

Logan said it's him or us. And it's not that I disagree, but I won't be so cavalier about this decision. It changed me when that bullet found its target in Chicago. A sudden jolt of anger suffuses me—damn them for turning me into a killer.

But what worries me is Mac, Wallace and Weevil, still left behind in Neptune. Even Cliff might be in danger. If it comes down to protecting them, I would hand-deliver that video to Papa Sorokin.

I'm jealous of Logan all of a sudden. He doesn't know what I know, what murdering someone does to you. He thought he did, up on the roof, but really he didn't. For the first time in a long time, I envy him. He can condemn Gory to death. And I can't.

Not yet.

And my dithering—is it going to be what destroys us? When did I become this frightened little worm? I remember how it used to feel, when I'd jump into action, consequences be damned. It used to feel _good._

_Hello, consequences._

I imagine Gory meeting with Jake Kane after our little tête-à-tête in the food court. Gory had been carefree that day, completely unworried about this stupid blonde chick who was a minor pain in his ass. A hot lay with a smart mouth, and nothing more, he'd thought.

_...you know what you should do with your sudden popularity?..._

And then Jake would have told him what I was capable of. I picture Gory squirming as he found out that I'd solved murders, taken down the great Aaron Echolls, outsmarted Timothy Foyle, and survived Beaver and Mercer. Even more alarmingly, I'd somehow cracked an encrypted hard drive in record time and had the balls to walk in the front door of Pemberton Estates to hand it to my nemesis. I wasn't just some bimbo doing a naked cheer, but rather someone quite a bit more formidable.

I wonder if Gory had seethed, with Jake telling him to calm down—_I've got it under control, Gorya_—and Gory had ignored him. Maybe Gory called in favors, getting people to help him. There must have been mobsters loyal to Gory's uncle who were pissed at his dad for killing Lev up in Corcoran State Penitentiary. A few phone calls, and Gory had a crew willing to do his dirty work, willing to do whatever needed to be done to keep Gory's secret from his dad.

First it was a warning shot across our bow, pissing on Logan's bed and breaking the fish sculpture. When we'd disappeared, Gory had gone to the police and filed battery charges to try to drive us out. And when we still didn't surface, he'd set fire to the Navarro junkyard and started nosing around Cliff.

Was Jake still trying to get Gory to calm down, telling him that the Castle had too much to lose for some crazy vendetta? No. I think Jake was afraid of Gory.

And then I have another thought. It won't just be Gory's father who will be furious with him. Every powerful man in The Castle will be gunning for him if the organization is destroyed because of Gory's smarmy porn video.

_...it was instinct. I always forward porn—when it's good...  
_  
Gory's childish stunt would infuriate the judges, senators and executives who'd prefer that The Castle remained a secret. I bet Jake was afraid of them, too—there'd be hell to pay because Jake had trusted the Castle's secrets to a juvenile mobster with poor impulse control.

I wonder suddenly why Jake Kane was in charge of the Castle. Is it because of something he knows? Or maybe he was elected by the others?

I go around...and around...and around...and still all I can see is no way out, no path to redemption, no savior stepping up to help us. People in power, with unknowable resources, ready to jail us, maybe even— Sociopathic mobsters _clearly _ready to obliterate us from the face of the earth.

So what do you do when everything's impossible? You shove those feelings deep down, _way _deep down, and you live in denial. You plaster a smile on your face and you keep going.

_...I'm always here...if you need anything. But you never need anything..._

I know 'denial'. I've been living this way for quite some time.

But sometimes, you do something just 'cause it feels right. Because you finally find the guts to do it. Because it's all there is, really. Because you _do _need something, Veronica. You need some_one_. So you scootch down, pushing your pajama bottoms off, and throw a naked leg over the slumbering guy next to you, who seems to love you even when you screw up. Sometimes, he seems to love you even _more _when you screw up.

_...hold that thought for later..._

One of his eyes opens. It's still swollen and multi-colored from Dad's fists two nights ago. He winces against the light and then smiles as he sees me, naked from the waist down, perched atop his pelvis. "Hmm. Good morning?" It's a question fraught with possibilities. One finger traces a line down my thigh, and I shiver.

_...courage. You can do this..._

I whisper, "I was thinking..."

"No, you? Veronica Mars was thinking? I don't believe it." His voice is hushed, and he glances at the clock—_6:13am, no, 6:14_—and the closed bedroom door before tilting his head hopefully.

I pull off my T-shirt and lean down to his ear. "I was thinking, _carpe diem, _baby."

He huffs a laugh and grins when I toss my shirt to the side. "Yeah, _carpe diem_, baby."

_...Lilly laughing, '_Carpe diem_, baby, die young and leave a beautiful corpse..._

I smile and I see he's remembering her too; we can smile about Lilly and her outrageous pronouncements nowadays. There's just a trace of the sadness that will never completely go away.

But he gets it. It's all we have left. _Carpe diem. _Don't think about it. Seize the day.

And denial feels good. It's a slender digit torturing my flesh with feather-light strokes, the feeling of his body's contours threatening to overwhelm me. And then a finger pressed to my lips, warning me to stay silent, just before he rolls us over and settles in on top of me. Rushed exhalations brush my neck as he presses his body against mine.

"Damn," I breathe. What have I been so afraid of? As if he'd ever say no— I gasp a little when his finger moves _right there._

"Shh." His hand fumbles up and finds my mouth, squelching my pants. Logan looks at me and stifles my helpless moans with his hand. Our eyes are tethered together as he caresses me. My eyes flutter shut and he nips me, hard enough that I understand and open my eyes to him again. He wants me to watch as he destroys me.

I deny that the world is ending, that there's anything wrong on this earth. All there is in the world is a moist, sloppy pressure right where I need it. There's no end to this, no beginning, nothing but circles and sucking and my body trapped by his strong limbs. His hand releases my mouth with a warning look, and a sudden caress melts me—too much and not nearly enough.

My palm flies to my mouth as I whimper; my other hand scrabbles at the sheet, seeking a handhold to steady me. I lose the surly bonds of earth, flailing and falling, at his assured touch.

Still he demands my eyes as I shudder and surrender. Exorbitant wet sounds of lips and tongue striving and seeking, and pinpricks of intensity all over my body. My eyes water with the stress of staying quiet and yet he continues, past a throbbing exultation into the humming beyond and then another ineluctable, impossible vibration after that. I'm trembling again, my eyes pleading for respite, and he forces a last gasping quake, taking all that I've got and more.

He pulls himself up my body to kiss me, my muscles ennervated and contrite under him. I whimper into his mouth as he tongues me, sloppy and demanding. "Want you to turn over," he whispers—no, insists. "Come on, Veronica."

Isn't it enough that he's taken everything? But it's not, and firm hands roll me over, adjusting me to his liking. A kiss above my ear, an exhalation, "stay there," and then I sense the subtle movements of boxers hastily discarded and a condom being ripped open.

Moaning soundlessly into the pillow, I arch my back in an impossible angle. Strong hands, still calloused from surfing, grasp my hips and steady me. I long to keen my distress and my desire—my denial of this whole insane world.

It's rough and hard, pounding and pummeling—that indescribable aching, primal and instinctual. He drapes himself over my back and whispers, his tongue and lips wet against my ear, "Come on, baby. I love you. Come on."

He slows and it's everything I've got not to whine and thrash. I hear, through gritted teeth, I think, a strangled exhortation, "Come on," as his hands hold me in place. Our flesh slaps loudly, and there's a slight rhythmic squeaking from the old mattress—_oh god, oh god, please let Dad not hear this_—and still he makes love to me.

He breathes in suddenly, his whole body tensing over me, and we struggle and clasp, ease and tense, one final summoning to let us vibrate together.

We collapse to the bed, his weight heavy upon me. Logan grabs my hair, still animalistic, still in the throes of whatever we just did, and turns my head, possessing me with a kiss. It's practically a growl: "_Carpe_ _diem_, baby."

•••••

It's a long day at work, followed by another marathon computer session in our basement lair that evening. Logan is convinced that his sailing scheme will give all of us an opportunity to start over. The day was spent amassing a selection of suitable used boats, seaworthy but affordable, and he shows us the blogs from the Newport-Bermuda race, with competitors talking about sailing at 7.5 knots with a favorable current and lots of sunshine. He tries to restrain his enthusiasm when he points out that last year the fastest boat made it to Bermuda in 72 hours. There's the hint of a real smile on his face for the first time since he told us about his probation. It's easy to be sucked into his optimism, and I guess he's living in denial in his own way.

"Except we won't be able to stop in Bermuda, you know," Dad points out. "That's British territory. We would have to turn and head south before we alert any of the harbor authorities. No rest in a luxury hotel like the race participants get." He leans forward, clicking through the race website with interest. A smudge of grease mars Dad's uniform shirt, and he looks tired. He always looks tired now. But there's a spark—a hint of hope on his face—and I resolve to give Logan's idea a fair hearing in spite of my reservations.

I plaster a smile on my face and listen to them discussing the possibilities. Logan expounds on the typical wind directions and currents this time of year as I scan the race blogs. My heart sinks when I read 'The Newport Bermuda Race is called the "thrash to the Onion Patch" because it usually includes sailing in rough water.' I can't shake my fear that one of us is going to get hurt or worse if we do this.

Logan must be psychic, because he draws my attention to an entry in the trivia section:

'Total entries: 4,860 boats with approximately 51,000 sailors  
Total miles raced: (approximately) 3,200,000 miles  
Lives lost: 1, in a fire on the schooner _Adriana_, 1932 (ten sailors were saved from _Adriana_ by a competitor, _Jolie Brise_)'

I feel his eyes on me as he says, "Those are damned good odds. Most of the participants are weekend sailors with minimal ocean experience. The course has been documented extensively." He starts to explain several different possibilities for 'watches', shifts on deck, that would make sure that he was on duty during the riskiest time around midnight but would still make sure that all three of us got adequate rest. And then he shows us some notes he's made about supplies: how much fresh water, diesel fuel for the engines in case we're becalmed, canned food and other provisions, and safety gear.

"What about when we get there?" Dad asks.

Logan smiles ruefully. "That's the hard part. I'm trying to get a sense of how much scrutiny we'll have when we get where we're going."

"Which is?" I ask.

"I'm still figuring that out. At first, I thought Cuba, but your dad's right, we'll attract too much attention there. It's hard to get information, but the few people who've sailed there say that the government's up in everyone's business, and we'd have a hard time finding jobs. Maybe the Dominican Republic instead."

Dad nods. "You might be right. Enough graft and lax government that we could slide under the radar." He stretches. "Okay, I declare a moratorium. We need a break. Let's talk a little bit more about this tomorrow, and then we'll vote. What do you say? Quick game of Monopoly, maybe spades?"

Logan is bursting with energy and dying to work on this, but he sees that Dad and I are both weary, so he suggests, "How about 'Spit'?"

I say, "Get ready to be annihilated, sucker."

A half-hour later, with the game still going strong and none of us making any headway on getting rid of our cards, Logan excuses himself. Dad shuffles and says offhandedly, "Going any better with him? You know, the relationship stuff."

I sigh. It's never going to feel normal to talk with him about Logan. "Yeah. Better."

Dad snorts. "You're positively eloquent."

I think about telling him that we had epic sex this morning but settle for a serene, "Things are progressing."

He laughs a little louder. "Sure sounded that way this morning."

I gasp, feeling my face redden. "I hate you!"

"You love me."

"No, I hate you!"

Dad leans over and kisses me. "I'm here if you need to talk about anything. He seems a little less depressed, now that he has the sailing thing to focus on. You know, I think I'm starting to like him." He shakes his head, as if bewildered.

"Well, you didn't kill him when you heard us this morning, so that's something," I retort.

Logan reappears while I'm still fuming. "What? What are you guys talking about?"

"Never mind." I shoot Dad a glare and, putting on a poker face, he keeps quiet.

I watch the two of them as we finish our game. Logan and Dad really are getting along, in a way I never would have predicted. And Logan's black mood about being stuck in the apartment seems mostly to have abated, for now. They team up and frustrate me over and over again, both of them slapping my hand out of the way to place their own cards. Then the two of them battle it out, with Logan finally getting rid of his cards and holding his hands over his head like a championship boxer. "Na, na, na, nah...na, na, na, nah...hey, hey, hey... goodbye!" he sings, completely off-key. "The new 'Spit' champion, ladies and germs."

"Very mature," I snipe.

"Pfft," Dad says. "Says the pot to the kettle. Don't worry, Logan, she's just not used to losing this game."

I give in to my inner five-year-old and whine, "You two ganged up on me. Meanies!"

•••••

"You're still worried about sailing offshore." Logan caresses my arm and pulls me tight to his chest.

I feel really safe right this second, lying in bed with him, and I wish he wouldn't push me—my chest tightens as I picture the three of us battling a monster typhoon in a rickety sailboat. "Yeah, I keep imagining, I don't know, storms and waves and hurricanes, what do you call it?"

"A rough passage."

"Yeah, that's it. A rough passage, me puking my guts out and the three of us holding on for dear life. And Logan, I don't know anything about sailing. What if I screw up, pull the wrong rope and tip the boat over?"

"You're not going to do that. It's very logical, and you're smart. And it's 'line', not rope."

"I hate when you do that. I'm trying to explain how I feel, and all you do is correct my jargon and tell me I'm wrong."

"I'm sorry. I promise I'll teach you. We'll take a day or so and stay close to shore until you get comfortable at the helm. Believe me, I don't want to do this if you're tentative. I'm going to make sure you're as competent at sailing as you are at everything else you do."

He chucks me under the chin and I push his hand away in annoyance. "It's not just fear about the sailing itself. It's also really..." What is it? I can't even express it. "It's cowardly. It's final. It's running away and starting over and never ever doing the things I thought I'd do."

"It also might be incredible. Blue, blue water; sunny days and the wind keeping you cool and pushing us to someplace where we'll be safe. We could hop from island to island. People dream about sailing around the world. And it's so beautiful in the Caribbean. White sand and crazy turquoise water, a color you've never seen, nothing like the Pacific. The people are awesome—lots of cool degenerates who dropped out of civilization, beach bums and eccentrics."

"Yeah, that's the tourist areas...it's not going to be quite so cool living with the natives and trying to make a living. What are we going to do for work?"

"The same thing we're doing here, except I can get a job too." He plays with my hair for awhile. "I know it's a leap into the unknown. It's very scary, especially for a control freak like you."

I elbow him. "I am _not _a control freak."

"Ow." He strokes my arm for a while. "I know you think you can investigate our way out of this. But—"

I say it. "I know I can't." It makes my stomach hurt to admit it. We might be able to eliminate Gory, but our other problems aren't going away.

"It might be good not to be so scared all the time."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Definitely. Just...try to keep an open mind about it, okay?"

"Okay."

When I fall asleep, I dream that I'm underwater. Logan is trapped inside the overturned boat and his white face, panicked, presses against a porthole. I can't do anything to get him out, and I watch helplessly as he tries to hold his breath and finally fails. Dad floats by, eyes open and blood gushing from a head wound.

I start awake, breathless. Logan's next to me, sleeping heavily. Cuddling next to him, I try unsuccessfully to fall asleep for the rest of the night and think about everyone we've left behind in Neptune: Mac and Wallace, Weevil, Backup, Cliff, Piz, Parker, even Dick.

I wonder if they're safe, what they're doing, and what Gory might be plotting to try to get to us. Mac might be lying awake right this moment, trembling in fear; Weevil could be nursing a burn on his arm. Wallace is arguing with his mother about the trouble _that girl _got him into once again. Cliff's actually hitting the law books, seeking a solution that just isn't there. Logan and Dad are living a life of code words and disguises, facing an existence of crappy jobs and cowering in basement apartments. They're all frightened and miserable, because of me and my ridiculous vendetta.

And when the dawn comes, I've decided that I want to send the Castle video to Sergei Sorokin. It won't make up for what I've done, but it's all I can do.

•••••

The next evening, Logan spends two hours going over everything in his master plan. It's really quite impressive; he seems to have thought of everything. He has a budget, a timetable that takes into account several different wind directions and speeds, a chart that details all the entry requirements of countries we might try to visit, and a list of five used boats that we could afford with our limited funds: one in Annapolis, three in Norfolk, and a fifth here in North Carolina in Wilmington.

Finally, Dad says, "Okay, I think we should vote. You've convinced me, Logan. I vote yes."

Logan says, "You know what I think."

They both look at me. I want so much to make them happy, to do this thing for them that they think will save us. But I find myself whispering, "I vote no. I'm sorry." And I truly am sorry, but I can't agree to this crazy plan.

Logan starts to speak, but Dad puts a hand on his arm to silence him. "We said it had to be unanimous. She's decided."

I add, my voice only a little louder, "But I've changed my mind about the video. I want to send it to Gory's dad."

"You're sure?" Dad asks. I nod, and he asks Logan, "You still want to send it too?"

"Yeah."

"Then it's unanimous."

And I feel just fine about that decision. It feels right. Except I made it for the exact same reason I shot down Logan's plan: I'm afraid.


	24. Chapter 24: Paralysis

**TITLE:** Paralysis (24/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,508**  
RATING:** PG13**  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. ** WARNINGS:** Cursing, sexual situations.**  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.**  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating.

* * *

_Veronica insists on looking up information on the Sorokins, and she realizes that Gory was not afraid that the video would be sent to the authorities, but rather that his own father would discover that he'd told a family secret to a fraternity._

_Sleep eludes Veronica, and she stews about whether she should vote to send the video to Gory's father, finally voting to send it, making it unanimous. Logan remains convinced that their best hope for survival is to buy a sailboat and set out for the Caribbean. Veronica, still traumatized and scared by her narrow escape in Chicago, focuses on the dangers of the journey, and finally votes that she wants to stay in Chapel Hill, overruling her dad and Logan, who have both voted to go. It unnerves her that she makes both these decisions out of fear rather than rationality.  
_

* * *

On the bus to work, my head sags against the window. The customary buildings along my route flash by; faces that have become familiar populate the bus. I try to see beauty in the lush greenery of Chapel Hill, but it all feels rotten and threatening. If you turned over a rock, there would be slugs and scorpions, and earthworms doing their part to decay the earth. Our life is squalid and hopeless. Fear and boredom, in equal parts. An unendurable, unending existence of lying low and just plain lying.

Because the alternative is the dark froth of the Atlantic tearing apart a wooden boat. Three bloodied survivors cling to the wreckage, battling the wind and waves until one by one they slip under the sea—a last gasp of brackish oxygen and then it's all regrets and we-should-haves.

No, I chose this verdant landscape, where vines and humus invade overnight and rains deposit a lingering, palpable humidity. And we're sheltered by all this sodden fertility, for now.

My 'no' vote was my last bit of selfishness. Old Veronica, prideful and self-absorbed, asserted herself one last time, and the men in my life acceded to me once again.

Logan had tried to hide his disappointment from me, but he was clearly depressed that we weren't going to sail off to the Caribbean. I apologized three times, until finally he turned on me and snapped, "I can't talk about it yet." We laid as far apart from each other as we could on the double bed last night. I wouldn't call it sleeping—I don't think my eyes closed for more than five minutes all night long.

This morning when I emerged from the bathroom dressed for work, wearing the three layers that add fifteen pounds to my physique, he quickly navigated away from a webpage on the computer. I tried for a light tone. "What'cha got there?"

"Nothing." He could barely look at me.

"You're not going to do something crazy, are you?"

Logan sighed. Hitting the back button, he turned the screen to me, exhibiting a plastic surgery site. "Noses, Veronica. Cheekbones and brow lifts." With old-Logan sarcasm, he added, "The possibilities are endless." I inhaled to protest, and he said, "Don't say it. It _is _necessary."

"I—" _I...I what? I need you. I love you. I need you. Please don't do this...we'll figure something out. _"We'll talk about it tonight. Let me think about the sailing thing again today."

"No, it's okay. You made your feelings _perfectly _clear."

Wincing, I'd been haunted by the vivid memory of his eyes, burning with lust and hopeful for the future just two days before—not these bleak eyes that won't really meet mine. I took three weary and unbearable steps forward, and my arms tentatively wrapped around him, hoping for forgiveness. Not understanding, because that would be too much to hope for. "I love you. I promise I'm listening to you. Please don't be mad at me for being—" My voice faltered and I'd shut my eyes again. "I'm sorry I'm so afraid."

A long moment of silence as he absorbed my confession, and then one hand had snaked back and caressed my hair. "I know. I'm not mad."

"I'll see you tonight."

Next stop. A grandmother gets on; a pair of rowdy teenagers get off. I've already seen this scene played out a few times. It's all about marking the days and keeping to our routine now. Don't screw up. Don't diverge from our protocol. Don't. Don't.

As I step off the bus and walk into the mall, I remind myself that I'm lucky. I get to leave the apartment and see other people, see the sky and the trees, have a little variety in my existence. At Orange Julius, the guy behind the counter nods, "S'up," just like he did yesterday and the day before. There's Barnes and Noble. Look, they've changed the featured book display. A food court—too many memories, of course, so I always walk past just a little too quickly. Brookstone and its gadgets for the man who truly has everything. I bet Logan owned most of these cool items in his old life. A Hold Everything store...storage for all the stuff you just bought at Brookstone, that you're not really going to use, and ten years from now it'll all be marked down at a garage sale, picked over and then discarded in the next day's trash.

I walk into the store and plaster on my work smile. Ashley beams at me. "Hey, Mandy. Guess what?" I shrug that I don't know, and she continues breathlessly, "Jeff transferred to the Raleigh store. Can you believe it? I'm so glad to be rid of that loser, always toking up and goofing off. I saw how he was bothering you, and I've been dreading having to deal with him. And now he's someone else's problem!"

"You knew?" All that worrying, and meanwhile Ashley had known exactly what Mr. Grabby Hands was up to.

"Of course I knew. And I really appreciate that you tried to be cool about it, tried to handle it yourself."

Ashley's a better manager than I thought. Of course, she probably should have dealt with Jeff right away, but at least she hadn't been oblivious to his shenanigans. "That's great news. Best news I've heard all day," I observe without a hint of irony. "That boy was dumber than a bucket of rocks, just wouldn't take the hint."

"Rocks? He was more like a toad, you ask me." Ashley points to the large picture window just beyond the racks of discounted slacks. "Beautiful weather today, right? I bet you it's going to be slow. A summer Sunday, with blue skies and a temperature in the low eighties—for once, people won't be hanging out in the mall for the air conditioning."

"Excellent." I'm pretty wiped out from two sleepless nights, and pretending to be nice to customers is more than I could handle. Just trying to hold onto my Southern accent feels exhausting today, and for the thousandth time I regret that I didn't just pretend to be a West Coast transplant to make my life a little easier.

"Say, do you want to get a coffee after our shift today? I feel like I barely know you. You really did handle Jeff better than I would have. What's your secret?"

I shrug again, refraining from telling Ashley that I'd employed a police hold typically used for disarming a suspect. "Coffee. Sounds great. Just you try and keep me away." But I make a mental note to pretend to get a phone call as the shift ends. The last thing I need is to have to keep track of an elaborate backstory while I'm working. Perhaps I should come up with a better character history and have Logan grill me on it.

No, scratch that. I will definitely come up with a kickass bio and Logan's going to make sure I'm perfect on it. I need to become 'Mandy', live in her skin, find out what makes her tick. Her hopes and dreams have to be my hopes and dreams.

_And Veronica? Make sure to aim low.  
_  
Ashley and I make small talk as we unpack boxes of khaki slacks and cashmere sweaters. She loves to talk recipes and diets and tell stories about her super-cute schnauzer, Beanie. Fortunately, Ashley's not in the thrall of celebrity—there's not much chance that she'll see my Hearst ID photo in an update on the Logan Echolls manhunt. I contribute commentary on human interest stories from the newspaper and pithy observations on the new low-rise slacks J. Crew is promoting.

It's just barely summertime, but the fashion industry is already thinking autumn. The lightweight polyester and cotton of summer slacks and sleeveless shirts gives over to wool and flannel, long sleeves and layers. Time marches on. One day follows another, and life stretches out in front of you, mundane, lousy and crappy. Working here is hour after hour of gabardine and no-iron linen, and a sore hand from punching the price tags and theft reduction devices onto the clothes.

And underneath my placid, content disguise, I long for the sordidness of motel matches and an illicit couple framed in the crosshairs of my telephoto lens. I imagine a database reluctantly yielding its secrets and a mysterious deed down at the county courthouse intriguing me. Dad would high-five me when we finally track down an elusive bail jumper, and 'follow the money' is our cross-stitch sampler nailed to the wall. Case closed. That always felt good, slamming the file drawer shut and endorsing the check, 'Mars Investigations, LLC.'

About an hour before closing, three girls walk into the store and Ashley offers to take care of them. I nod and keep folding a stack of excursion vests, my back turned and my thoughts still morose and all-consuming. The three girls chattering up front barely register on my consciousness.

"Hey, Mandy," Ashley calls to me. She holds up a shirt. "Can you check to see if there are any size sixes in loden in the back?"

I nod, and bring the shirt up to the front. And stop short. In between two girls I've never seen before is Jane Kuhne, Wallace's on-again, off-again girlfriend, who'd gotten derailed by his obsession with Jackie. Jane, who'd gotten the friends' rate when her sister disappeared right before the wedding. Jane, who'd eaten lunch with me, who'd commiserated with me over coffee at the Hut, and who certainly isn't going to shrug and forget it when she sees someone who reminds her of that teen detective from high school in a most unlikely place.

_This is what you get for griping about boredom. Safe, wonderful boredom._

Gulping down my terror, I walk up and hand the shirt to Ashley. "Here you go." I turn as quickly as I can and head for the back.

"Veronica? Veronica, is that you?"

I turn around on quivering legs, and look as puzzled as I can. "Excuse me?" I ask, my slight Southern drawl a little more exaggerated than usual.

Ashley helpfully says, "Veronica? No, that's Mandy." To me, she adds with a smile, "Thanks."

Not to be dissuaded, Jane strides over and grabs me in a hug. "It's so good to see you!"

I hold myself stiffly and shoot Ashley a 'help me' glance. "I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

Jane whispers in my ear. "Are you undercover? Oh my god, Veronica."

So she hasn't heard, and clearly she hasn't been contacted by the Feds or the Neptune Sheriff's Department. I allow myself the luxury of a momentary mental snark about the quality of agents employed by the FBI before I focus on just what I've got to do here. Voice as steady as I can make it and my Southern accent just a little more pronounced than usual, I try to sell it, because _everything's _riding on how I play this. "Miss, I truly am sorry, but I sure don't know what y'all are talking about. I have one of those faces—people are always sayin' I'm the spitting image of somebody or other."

_Believe me. Please believe me._

Jane looks puzzled. She pulls back, and I feel her assessing my weight and examining the curly auburn hair and glasses. "I, um, I guess...I'm sorry. I really thought you were somebody else."

"Happens all the time," I say smoothly, and put on my fake smile. I head for the storeroom and lean against the wall, my heart pounding and my legs barely able to keep me upright. _What do I do, what do I do?_

When Jane leaves here, she'll be on the phone to Wallace within thirty seconds. _You'll never guess who I ran into. I'm pretty sure... _And Wallace will tell her, "Nah, wasn't Veronica. Trust me," because he's a good soldier. But then she'll start googling. Will Jane rat me out to the feds? No. I'm certain she won't.

But then Wallace will know where I am. He'll be in danger. And if the feds run his phone records, maybe they'll notice a call from North Carolina and start nosing around. Maybe they'll even decide it's worth interviewing Jane. _Why the sudden call to Wallace Fennel, huh, Ms. Kuhne? You do know Fennell's under investigation as an accomplice to Veronica Mars, don't you?_

_Fix this. Goddammit, fix this!_

Can't be fixed.

It's not 911, drop everything and run, but there's no choice. We have to leave Chapel Hill, as soon as possible. _Damn, damn, damn. _I look at my watch—half an hour to go on my shift. Checking quickly to see if Jane and her friends left, I walk up to the front of the store. Deciding that a normal reaction would be to comment on such a strange encounter, I say, "Hey, Ashley. That was weird, right?"

"I'll say."

"D'you think I could knock off a little early? I'm feeling a little blah. Got my period today and I've got horrible cramps," I improvise, remembering that I'd claimed to have PMS just a few days earlier when I'd been upset about talking to my dad. "I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out."

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry. I hate that. Yeah, it's cool. We got a lot done without Jeff messing everything up."

I smile, hoping that my clenched jaw isn't noticeable. "Raincheck on that cup of coffee. Thanks, Ashley."

As soon as I leave the store, I pull out the prepaid phone and try to dial my dad. My fingers are shaking and it takes two tries before I dial the correct number.

"Hey." His voice is easy and relaxed. That's not going to last.

"Hi, Dad. It's me." I don't say 'honeybun' and I picture him pressing the phone to his ear and pacing, wondering if I've screwed up the code or if things have truly gone to shit.

"What's up?"

I'm walking toward the bus stop, grasping the phone so hard my knuckles hurt. There's a stabbing pain behind my right eye, and my stomach is churning with anxiety. "Funny thing. I ran into Aunt Charlotte today." Our code for _'someone spotted me.'_

"Really. How's she doing?" _What's the situation?_

"She says she's looking forward to the family reunion, and she's feeling good. No more sciatica." _We don't need to split up. There's time to pack._ Not, 'the cancer is back. It doesn't look good,' which would have meant, _drop everything and go_. Dad to the west, me north, and Logan south. No contact for at least a week. I feel nauseated thinking about it. Hiding in a dreary cheap motel somewhere in New Jersey, checking the casual encounters section of Craigslist for the coded message that never comes, because Logan and Dad don't make it. Or captured by Gory and vowing never to break, but I do, and then they kill me anyways.

_Focus, Veronica. There's things to do. We're not splitting up. We're not._

"That's good. See you at home." The change in Dad's voice is subtle. He's just a little wary and probably already going through his mental checklist for evacuation.

"Yeah. Oh, and Dad? That thing we were talking about last night? I want to change my vote to 'yes'.""Are you sure?"

"Positive."

•••••

We've practiced evacuation over and over. Dad's drilled us on exactly what to do, so by the time I get home, we'll be ready to roll. After dumping the phone and taking the bus to the University of North Carolina campus—a quick ten minute ride—I grab a cab and ask for a little tour of Chapel Hill. No one appears to follow me, so I have the cab drop me off in a park about a mile from home.

Adrenaline jitters through me like a hundred cups of coffee as I switch my high-heels for the tennis shoes that are always with me these days, right next to the Walther and a bundle of emergency cash in the bottom of my backpack. I run through the woods at top speed, every shadow a Fed in a dark windbreaker, every snapped twig a cocked pistol. Emerging onto a different street, several blocks from the apartment complex, I slow to a sedate walk. I'd scouted this route on my daily runs, and the hope is that even if a car had been following me, they would have lost me in the park. It still feels like there's a target on my back, and I resolutely push away the image of Brown Suit Guy pursuing me.

Dad's gone ahead, taking the bus to the nearest student parking lot thoughtfully provided by the University of North Carolina. He'll wait until he sees someone parking for the night, and then he'll steal their car, returning as quickly as he can to pick us up. Because we don't want to alert the building owner, Dad has called his boss and, in a voice blurred by tears, announced that his mother has had a massive heart attack and the doctors are saying to come immediately. I'll do the same with Ashley tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, Logan's been frantically boxing up what we'll need—the computer, printer, laminator and other peripherals that we need to make fake ID and essential papers. Clothes get shoved into garbage bags. With a couple of practice runs, we've got an organized departure down to forty-five minutes.

When I finally get home, I'm still panting from running and my neurotic imaginings. Upon hearing 'honeybun', Logan flings open the door and grabs me in a quick hug. "You really changed your mind?" I nod, and he closes his eyes and exhales. "Thank you. I swear to you—"

"I know. Let's talk about it later. We've got a lot to do."

It looks like a tornado hit the apartment, but Logan's done his job, and we're close to being ready to go. I check through the apartment and find a few personal items he's overlooked, but he did the essentials. Dad isn't back yet, so I instruct Logan to help me straighten up the apartment as much as possible. I dump the perishables from the fridge and take out the garbage. The few entertainment items that we'll be leaving behind—the Monopoly game, the hand weights, and a few paperback novels—go in the trash as well. We want the landlord to assume that we flaked out on him. It probably wouldn't be the first time that a handyman skedaddled.

Reminding Logan to check that his weapon is in his backpack, safety on, I reassure myself that mine is ready as well. I strap on the ankle holster with its diminutive weapon and then we wait.

We wait.

No Dad.

I will myself not to check the time. We sit and stare at each other, neither of us wanting to talk. After the briefest of arguments, Logan had overruled my suggestion to don a blond or black wig. With no time to dye his light brown beard and mustache, he would have had to shave. So he's sitting across the room from me, with a ball cap already on his head and sunglasses hanging from the collar of his T-shirt, and it's brutal to keep my worries to myself that he'll be recognized with this feeble disguise. His thigh jiggles nervously and he keeps scratching at nonexistent itches, and I wonder if he too is stewing about the way he looks. He'll slump down in the seat, I tell myself. It's dusk—no will see him, I tell myself.

For my part, I've put on the dark wig from my old Gamegirl outfit and I've trashed the clear glasses I've been sporting ever since Chicago. My makeup has been scrubbed off and I've donned an outfit that makes me look young again—ripped jeans and a belly shirt instead of the layers of t-shirts and leggings topped with a frilly blouse and dressy slacks. The disguise isn't much, but hopefully if Jane does go to the cops, she'll describe my appearance quite differently.

It's all we have time for. It has to be enough.

Our life has spiraled down into hyperventilation, taut muscles, and unspoken words of worry. Cars go by, and we strain our ears for the sound of a car engine slowing and stopping outside our door.

Or a siren. Or a bullhorn, and twenty assault rifles readied to take us out if we don't cooperate.

Finally I give up and check the time. An hour and forty-five minutes since I called. Five minutes for Dad to call the landlord and strap on his gun. Twenty minutes for Dad to get to campus parking. Thirty minutes to locate and steal a car. Twenty minutes to drive back here. He's a half-hour late, assuming everything went perfectly.

"He'll be here," Logan says.

"Right."

"Try not to worry."

"Right."


	25. Chapter 25: Panacea

**TITLE:** Panacea (25/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 5,023**  
RATING:** PG-13 for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.**  
DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Not beta'd. All errors are my responsibility. If you see something, let me know in a PM. Also, it's been a while since I did some of the activities in this chapter, so there might be some errors.**  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating. I have really appreciated getting all your reviews during a difficult time. I know better than to promise that I'll finish the story this summer, but that is my plan.

* * *

_Veronica morosely goes to work after vetoing the plan to sail to the Caribbean while Logan considers his plastic surgery options. Work is tedious and soul-crushing, despite Veronica's nemesis Jeff having transferred to another store._

_Jane Kuhne, along with two other girls, walks in to J. Crew. Jane immediately recognizes Veronica, despite Veronica's accent and protestations. Quickly leaving work, Veronica phones her dad and says she's changed her mind about sailing. Once home, she and Logan prepare to flee as they wait (interminably) for Keith to return with a stolen car.  
_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-five: Panacea

Eight red crescents scar my palms—I'd almost drawn blood clenching my fists as we waited for Dad for two and a half hours. I roll my neck, trying to get the muscles to stop screaming at me.

I'm cowering, lying on the back seat out of view—we mustn't look like _three_ desperate fugitives, and I'd volunteered to lie down, although my nausea is making me regret that choice. Dad is driving our stolen car, aggressively but legally, while in the passenger seat Logan clicks through bookmarked webpages on the laptop. It'll be three and half hours of driving to Norfolk, where Logan said there were at least three boats that were possible.

"And if none of them are okay?" I'd muttered.

Dad said, "Then we'll figure out something else." He'd tersely told us that a security guard pulled up just as he was going to slim-jim a Honda Civic, and he'd walked away, taking the shuttle to another long-term campus parking lot to steal this Chevy Impala. The lump of concrete in my chest refuses to dissipate—this is twenty million Joltin' Javas with Red Bull chasers, and my head's going to explode from all the we-should-haves and why-didn't-I's.

There's a lull in Logan's muted conversation with my dad about weather and boat types. "What about Wallace?" I ask.

"What?" Dad's foot on the accelerator lets up momentarily before we resume our speed.

"Should we warn him not to talk to Jane? I mean, if I was an FBI agent, I'd be monitoring Wallace's phone and email. I trust Wallace, but just a message from her and... Maybe a text from one of the prepaids?"

Dad's eyes meet mine in the rearview. "Maybe. He could call her first to 'catch-up,' prevent her from leaving a message that would set up some alarm bells. Even if they don't have an active tap, they'd at least be monitoring the phone numbers of incoming calls."

We discuss possibilities, and finally I send a text from the last disposable phone I'd bought in Chicago.

_hey papabear...ran into jane in the craziest place! she's really out of the loop & told me to say hi. c u tonite._

"Give it," Logan says, putting out his hand. I pass him the cell, and he pulls out the SIM card and tosses it out the window. He asks Dad, "How are we on gas?" Logan twiddles the phone, clearly wondering if we should take the time to smash it as we've done so often.

"Five-eighths. We'll make it on one tank. Dump the phone later." Dad glances at Logan. "Go over the boats again."

"This 30-footer...it's perfect. It's rigged for offshore, with all the safety equipment we need, plus a few nice extras, autopilot and windvane. It's pretty small for three people, but the price is right. 'Ready-to-sail,' the ad says."

I ask, "So why are they selling it?" I can't let go of my doubts, and having to do this in a hurry is making it worse.

"Don't know. We'll ask when we get there. Might not be very fast—but we don't want fast, we want stable and sturdy."

Dad frowns. "The other two?"

"This one's a lot more money. A 41-foot Morgan. It's a good boat."

"What's 'a lot more?'"

Logan pauses. "It's $65,000 versus $38,000. You're paying a lot of money for two cabins and things like air conditioning, which we could do without. It doesn't leave a lot of room for provisioning, or any repairs in the future."

"No way," I say.

Dad adds, "So that one's more of a luxury boat than we need. We're looking for meatloaf, not filet mignon."

Logan shrugs. "It's late in the season. We might be able to get a great deal on any of these."

I ask, "What about the last one?"

"It's in between the other two, 36 foot, $45,000. There's not much information on it, but it says 'need to sell.' Sounds like they're ready to negotiate. And that's probably a perfect size for us, small enough that we can handle it, but not so small that we'll want to murder each other after a couple days. We need a decent galley and a good berth so we can get enough rest if the seas are rough."

I've gathered that a berth is the bedroom, a galley the kitchen, and the head is the bathroom. So much jargon to learn. Testosterone—what is it about men and their lingo? "How are we going to know if any of these boats are going to be safe?"

Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Veronica, honey, we talked about this."

Logan says, "We hire a surveyor to look over the boat. We get a boat history report, just like a used car. Then we spend a couple days close to shore before we take off and push her hard—we make sure everything works right, and we learn how to run the boat."

"Great. And if something breaks when we're in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle?" As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn't.

In the mirror, Dad's eyes bore into mine. "Are you changing your mind?"

"No. You're right, we'll manage."

~ • ~

We dump the stolen car at a mall and take a taxi to a cheap motel about a mile from the large Norfolk boatyard where the three possibilities are up for sale. I change my hair to dark brown and Dad shaves his head again. Logan says a ball cap is the best for him—he never wore them in his old life. We're all worn down from the effort to stay hidden, and Dad warns us that now is when we're likely to make mistakes. "Stay alert. Don't attract attention. Act normal," he stresses.

Dad and Logan pretend to be father and son looking for an offshore boat to take down to the Caribbean in the autumn, which apparently is the normal thing to do. Logan explains patiently that it only means that most people are trying to avoid winter in the Northern Hemisphere, and it's not impossible to sail there now—but we will have to watch the weather. To cover our tracks when we set sail, they pretend that we'll be heading up to Newport for a 'shakedown cruise.' Of course, we'll hang a right and head for Bermuda instead.

While they shop for our transportation, I've been put in charge of sending the video to Gory Sorokin's father, and I consider how to get it into his hands. A physical DVD sent by the mail could be traced to here, and we're hoping to completely disappear off the face of the earth. Yet if we ask someone to forward it to him, we're placing them at risk if Sorokin contemplates reprisals. Dad thinks the remailing services are too spotty—chances are that the DVD wouldn't even be sent, and there's always a chance that some enterprising employee would keep a record of the originating address.

I decide to send it electronically, as the very last thing I do before we set sail, just in case something goes wrong and they're able to track our IP address. I can't find a direct email for Sergei Sorokin, so I'll use Tor protocols again to send an electronic link to one of the Sorokin senior's dry cleaning businesses, with the video itself uploaded onto the file-hosting service Megaupload. The subject line will read "Important-view immediately" and I'll use an email spoofing service to create an address that matches that of Sorokin's attorney.

I don't think about what Papa Sorokin might do to Gory once he views the video.

With that decided, I go shopping while they look at the boats. First Logan gives me a list of books on sailing and boat maintenance. Some I find in a used bookstore in nearby Virginia Beach, others in several Barnes and Noble bookstores in surrounding towns. Dad thinks it's worth the extra money to buy several other books—finance, travel, living off the grid, whatever—to disguise the significance of the boating books if someone does recognize me. Then I begin provisioning the boat, buying economical food that will keep for several weeks and be easy to prepare while underway. I buy a couple bags at a time at different groceries and schlep my purchases home on the Norfolk public transportation system. There are long lists of other necessities, made in consultation with our new sailing library—foul weather gear, bathing suits, flares, fishing tackle, first aid kits, hand tools, and lots of duct tape.

Our cash reserves are getting appallingly low. I realize that I've been subconsciously hoping that something would happen to change our plans, but with each dollar I spend, our choices narrow to sailing or turning ourselves in.

At night, before we crash, exhausted by stress and fatigue, Logan makes me practice three knots, the figure-8, which is easy, and a bowline (_bo-lin_) and a rolling half-hitch, which are harder. I fumble with the rope like a child, frustrating myself with my ineptitude, and he puts his hand over mine. "You can do it. Take your time and give yourself a chance to get it." When I finally master the bowline, he turns off the light and extends his wrists to me. "Now do it in the dark. I'm going to get you through this, Veronica. Tie me up, baby."

"Trust you to turn this into a sex game," I snark.

Dad snorts from across the room, where he's using Photoshop to make us new passports. With each iteration, he has me check the screen and I point out every errant pixel. These documents have to be perfect. The new passports use the covers and as many pages as possible from our former, thankfully pre-Patriot Act credentials. Even the staples are recycled for the new versions. Wielding an Exacto knife and straight-edge and sporting magnifying lenses, Dad sweats over every aspect of the reconstructions. The printer hums, and hums again, and light blue sheets that aren't quite right stack up—I'll be shredding and dumping them tomorrow.

When Dad completes my new passport, I rub the scuffed blue cover, realizing that the last link to Veronica Mars was gone. This is happening—we won't be scuttling off to Spokane or hunkering down in Hoboken. Vicky Donahue is heading for the Caribbean.

We don't discuss the Sorokins or Vinnie. Our life has been reduced to knots and Photoshop and shopping lists: with no energy left for relationship drama, the three of us are just existing in a maelstrom of survival. We have to do this. And we have to get it right. One chance.

But make no mistake—Dad and Logan are excited underneath their stress and fatigue. I am petrified. I'm certain I'll make a mistake that will get us all killed. There's no takebacks on the ocean.

The sailing lingo is seeping into my consciousness: spinnaker, foresail, mainsail, reef, boom, line instead of rope, halyard, mast, stays, helm. I'm supposed to stay away from the boatyard until we set sail, but Logan tells me about the boats and shows me the pictures on the website. Peering at the small pictures, I can't imagine cramming the three of us into the small space available; the galleys look impossibly cramped, and I picture pots and pans flying around as we battle the ocean. But the hi-tech electronic gear somehow reassures me: it at least looks comforting and professional.

Of the three boats in which we were interested, two seem acceptable, the cheapest and the median-priced. The most expensive is going to be too much work to handle with only a three-person crew, Logan decides. It might be a little faster in the water, but it's not worth the extra money—he thinks it's more of a racing boat, and we want something stable, safe, and easy-handing.

The cheapest, the 30-footer listed for $38,000, has a problem with its roller furling system (whatever that is) and Logan declares that it's something we'll definitely need and might take time to repair, and the space below would be awfully tight. But Logan thinks we can get the 36-footer listed for $45,000 much cheaper, because it has some cosmetic defects—worn cushions and scraped decking, and the interior fittings aren't very luxurious. All the mechanical elements look really well-maintained, he swears. The broker hints that the owners, heirs trying to settle an estate, don't want to put more money in the boat and have moaned about the cost of maintaining a dockage. The marine surveyor passes both boats and their history is clean. Dad dummies up a corporation in which to register the boat. We put in bids on both, but I know that Logan wants the 36-footer. "Instinct," he says with a shrug. "I just have a feeling that it's the boat for us—I've liked it since I first came across it on the Internet."

It's happening. This lunacy is going to happen. We haven't even left shore, and already I feel slightly nauseated at all times. I pick up a large supply of Dramamine and the candied ginger recommended by one of Logan's books.

After five days of surveys and negotiations, the deal is made. For $37,900, we—or rather the 'International Contracting Corp.'—are the proud owners of a 36 foot Westerly Corsair. Dad and Logan set sail from Norfolk, and they pick me up with the dinghy at a marina in Virginia Beach. No one in Norfolk has seen three people shopping for a boat, just a father and son who appear to be extremely close.

So the first time I see the boat is from the water. In the little rubber boat, we sidle up alongside and Dad extends a hand to haul me onboard. Our sailboat is both smaller and bigger than I'd thought. It's not sleek like some of the other boats in the harbor, but it looks solid and sturdy.

"_She_," Logan reminds me. "Not _it_."

She is called _Panacea_.

~ • ~

Virginia Beach is in the rearview and _Panacea_ is making good 'headway,' leaning to one side with the sails pulled in tight. Logan calls it 'heeling.' I'm huddled in the cockpit, hoping I won't trip over one of the masses of ropes—oops, _lines_—congregating in the center of the boat. Sparkling seas surround us, with light waves that jostle the boat and a steady breeze blowing. I see flags fluttering on shore far away, and an occasional boat tipped just as we are.

Logan, steering, announces casually, "Ready about." Dad, hunkered down towards the front of the cockpit, glances back and nods.

Logan says, "Hard alee," and turns the steering wheel. As the boat turns ninety degrees, Dad lets out a rope and drops his head, and the heavy metal rod holding down the bottom of the bigger sail suddenly flies to the opposite side of the boat. Dad clambers over me and pulls another line in tight using a metal drum attached to the deck. It seems impossible to figure out which rope is attached to what.

From sailing with Duncan, I know that this is a 'tack,' a change in our relationship to the wind direction. Duncan's boat had a small sail, on a two inch pole, in a little boat—if it overturned when we screwed up, we stood up on the board extending from the bottom of the boat, got it straightened up and continued on our way. I'm pretty sure Duncan tipped the boat on purpose more than once to dump me in the water. However, there's clearly no way to right this much bigger boat if it flips over.

The rod on this boat's sail, which I now remember is called a boom, is a dangerous thing, heavy and unpredictable except to people who can read the wind and understand what the hell the boat is doing. A man-killer, if you didn't know it was going to come flying across the boat. At the very least, it could knock an unsuspecting 5'1" former detective right off her ass into the Atlantic Ocean.

The boat is now heeling to the opposite side, and I hear the wind rattling in the sails. How are we not falling all the way down to the water? I can't imagine trying to cook down in the galley with the boat tipped like this. We hit a larger wave with a 'whomp' and I suppress a little shriek.

Logan says, "So if someone says, 'tacking,' or 'coming about,' that's what's going to happen. You always watch your head if you're on deck. The boom can come fast if the wind is strong. Let's trim the jib. Remember? The sail in the front."

I look at him with dread.

"Find the line that goes to the jib." With a sigh, I scramble over to the lines and pick up a few of them until he indicates that I've selected correctly. It's a double rope that connects to the corner of the sail, with one line going to the right side of the boat and the other to the left.

(I know, _I know_...starboard and port. Cut me some slack will you?)

"That metal thing is called a winch, and the jib sheet—" I glare at him, and he amends, "sorry, the rope, called the jib sheet, should be wound going clockwise, two turns is okay for now, in heavy winds you might need more. It's called a self-tailing winch, that means you tuck the rope in those teeth so that you need the least exertion possible. Take that handle," he says, pointing.

There's a large metal implement, resembling a large socket wrench handle, in what looks like a cup-holder attached to the cockpit. I hold it up and he nods. "Slot it into that winch and use it to crank the line. There's a switch on the top—try both settings, so you see what it does. It's easy to have it set wrong, so just check it if it feels hard to trim the sail." Once I've got it placed, he says, "Watch those little pieces of yarn up on the sail." Shielding my eyes from the sun, I see twin parallel pieces of string fluttering up at the top of the sail. "When the sail is tightened just right, they'll flow back horizontally. You find the best possible direction available considering the wind direction, set your course, and then adjust your sails to that setting. Why don't you experiment with it a little, let the sails out a little and watch the tell-tales, and then pull them back in again?"

I try it, and finally I kind of get it. If the sails are exactly right, the boat seems to surge ahead a little; a little too tight, or a little too loose, and the boat speed drops off. "That's it, you're getting it," he praises. "Eventually you'll be able to do it mostly by feel."

"It's just one thing," I mumble. "What about everything else?"

"You'll get it. Let's just practice for awhile. Every time we tack we have to adjust the sails. You'll get good at it fast. And then you can try steering."

He has me go to the opposite 'high' side, saying that he'll release the line holding the jib on the starboard side as we turn, and then I'll have to wind it in on the port side, first by hand, and, then when it gets too hard to pull, wrapping additional turns and using the winch. I don't feel at all ready, and when the sail rustles over to the port side, the rope eludes me. I finally get a few turns on the barrel and slot the handle into the winch, but cranking it is impossible.

Dad says, "She's got an override."

Logan leans to look, and I realize that instead of neat rows parading up the side of the metal drum, I have lines wrapped over each other, and they are holding firm, defeating the mechanical advantage of the winch. I pick at the ropes with my fingers, and Logan says sharply, "No!" I pull my hands off and I feel the boat turn and slow down, with the sails beginning to flap. "It happens to everyone," he explains. "You have to be careful of your fingers. Always pull lines with the heel of your hand closest to the winch. I've headed upwind, that means the load is off the line, and now you can safely fix it."

I flush, and struggle to get the line right, unwrapping and rewrapping, feeling more embarrassed at my ineptitude. Interminably later, it's okay, and as Logan turns the wheel and the sails fill, I winch in the line until the sails look and feel right. He says, "The wind and the sea are stronger than us, stronger than the boat. If something goes wrong, you let go. Let the line go, let the wheel go. Watch." He lets go of the wheel and, of its own accord, the boat slowly turns and the sails begin to flap again, our vessel losing speed. He spins the wheel back, the sails fill again, and we heel and take off. "Let's try something else. Let the line go. Just let it go. Unwrap it from the winch."

Nervously, I uncleat the line holding the jib and spin the rope off the winch, letting it snake onto the deck. Simultaneously, Logan releases the rope attached to the mainsail. It's not quite like hitting the brakes, but it's dramatic: we've been harnessing the force of these elements, and by releasing these ropes, the elements have lost some of their power to harm us. "Don't lose your fingers, Veronica. Sometimes you just have to let go, not hang on."

For an hour, we turn back and forth, practicing. Dad takes the helm for a while and Logan makes minute inscrutable adjustments to various lines while I practice winching in the line after each tack.

I'm starting to get nervous—the process of buying the boat and provisioning it took much longer than I'd anticipated, and I assumed we'd be running towards Bermuda by now. But Logan shakes his head. "We stick to the plan. We're just going to practice today and anchor somewhere before we really go offshore. Tomorrow, when you're ready, we're going to do 'man overboard' drills."

"It'll be okay, Veronica," Dad says. "Nobody paid any attention to us in Norfolk. We've got to do this. I'm rusty, and you've never done this. You're not the only one who's worrying about safety."

After practicing trimming sails for another couple hours, I steer for about twenty minutes. Logan shows me the compass and other dials to be watching, and truthfully, it's not that difficult mentally, but it's fatiguing to be constantly watching and making a thousand minute adjustments to our course. I realize that it's going to be much harder in a storm. Of course we have an autopilot that we'll be using, but Logan doesn't have to explain that I need to learn what to do if it fails. For the first time, having just three of us is a problem. In these light winds, it seems like somebody is always having to do something, and the others have to help keep watch. It will be a million times harder in a strong wind. How will we possibly have enough rest if we are doing this for the nine to sixteen days that Logan says it might take?

Reading my mind again, Logan announces that there's a small public marina off the eastern coast of Virginia that would be a good place to anchor for the night and try out our galley. He exchanges a glance with Dad and adds, "If we have any problems, Chesapeake Bay is going to be our best bet to get things fixed, so that's why we're staying close for the first day or so. And we're all exhausted. We need a good night's sleep, maybe two, before we go offshore. A hot meal would be awesome, too."

~ • ~

Logan's face betrays his fatigue, and I insist he take a nap while Dad and I make dinner. On the tiny propane grill bolted to the rear of the boat, Dad grills steaks from the little marina grocery, while I microwave baked potatoes and frozen broccoli. The sun is just beginning to dip in the sky when I rouse Logan. We sit in the cockpit and eat as if we'd been fasting.

Few boats are anchored here near the Barrier Islands, with no one very close—we'd purposely selected a mooring farthest away from the marina. I've been holding my breath ever since I ran into Jane, but here at the edge of the ocean it seems preposterous that a random encounter could be so life-threatening. It already feels very solitary even before we've completely left shore. The Virginia coastline is beautiful and serene to the west and the sea to the east seems inviting and complacent: a wide expanse of possibility all around us after the claustrophobia of Chapel Hill.

Logan disappears down below and emerges with a book for me. "Here's your homework." It's a thin volume called Invitation to Sailing by Alan Brown. "First two chapters and quizzes, please. Do you need a highlighter?"

"Hah. Aye-aye, Captain."

I settle in on deck with my book as the sun slowly sets. Dad and Logan are below, monitoring the radio. There's a man named Herb who runs a volunteer weather forecasting service for sailors. You're supposed to email him with your course and then check in with him on the radio every day, giving him your coordinates and weather observations. He tells you the forecast and suggests course headings. But Dad and Logan decided, and I agreed, that having someone know our exact location at every step of the way was too big a risk, if somehow our boat purchase was discovered. None of us can shake the image of Vinnie waiting for us on the dock once we get to the Caribbean.

So they've decided to listen to all the radio conversations with the amateur forecaster, and find a boat to shadow during our journey. It's a risk—if the other boat is faster or slower than us, we might find ourselves unexpectedly in bad weather that Herb didn't mention. I hear the muted radio conversations and an occasional cryptic comment from Dad or Logan as I try to puzzle out the points of sail: reaching, beating, and running.

_I'm sick of running..._

I shift a little, leaning back against the mast and letting my book drop. The Atlantic is gray compared to the Pacific. Even on a sunny day like today it doesn't come close to the deep blue of the waves off the PCH. There are no rocky promontories jutting into white-capped water, but rather wind-swept sand and scruffy beach shrubs. It's odd to have the sun setting over the land instead of the water: the eastern sky's colors are an anti-sunset, a gentle gradient reflecting the sun's rays, not the domination of a burning orb disappearing below the water line.

The fragility of the ecosystem of the Barrier Islands means few human settlements. The land is infinitely mutable; you can't count on that sand bar being there even next week if a storm comes. It's the possibility of change and renewal amid destruction; hang on too tight, and the sand might slip right through your fingers. Float with the wind and the water and you just might survive, might even prosper in the new terrain.

I remember standing in the water off Dog Beach on election day, the sand shifting beneath my feet and my whole world disappearing as the rain pelted me into oblivion. All gone. This boat and the three of us are what's left after the hurricane.

"Hey." Logan startles me as he emerges from below deck. "We've got two boats identified that are heading for Bermuda. If we leave day after tomorrow, we should be able to track along with them." He peers over my shoulder. "This is the best sailing textbook. Making any more sense?"

"Some," I admit.

"Look in this picture—see how all the sails are at the same angle to the wind? It's just that the boat has turned underneath the sail. It's all vectors, you know." He motions with his hands and explains a little more, until it starts to get dark and we can't see the text. "Want to sleep up here on deck? It's such a nice night."

We spread several cushions and blankets on the front part of the boat ("foredeck, silly" he whispers indulgently) and lie down, his arms holding me tight. "It's going to be amazing. And you're going to do fine." _Panacea_ rocks gently in the water, and the stars above us appear to float from side to side in a purplish cashmere sky, exquisite and humbling, vertiginous and spiritual. A hushed murmur of waves hitting the sides of the boat is punctuated by the rhythmic ding of metal on metal as the breeze blows through the rigging of the boat.

Logan's fingers curl into mine, just as they ought to. Somehow, with all the headlong rushing to get away, run away, we've forgiven each other for disagreeing about this plan. The wake of a passing motorboat jostles _Panacea_, and I tumble a little closer to him as the boat rocks, at first violently, then gradually diminishing back to the normal sway. We hang onto each other, our breath mingling as we float upon the waves.

And it feels as if we might have a future.


	26. Chapter 26: Presentiment

**TITLE:** Presentiment (26b/?)  
**AUTHOR:** **vanessagalore  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 4,831  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and flyersgrl. All remaining errors are my responsibility.  
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating.  
**FUN WORDS TO LEARN (CHEMISTRY 101 WITH PROFESSOR GALORE):** Saltpeter, or potassium nitrate, is primarily thought of as a component of gunpowder or a food preservative. There's also an old wives' tale that ingestion of saltpeter can cause impotence (which is apparently not true). The More You Know...

**°•°•°•° THIS IS THE PG13 VERSION- ****°•°•°•°**

******°•°•°•°** THE MATURE VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER **°•°•°•°**

******°•°•°•° **IS POSTED AS A SEPARATE STORY °•°•°•°

******STORY ID: 9628120**

* * *

_Keith finally shows up, and they drive to Norfolk, Virginia to buy a sailboat. While Logan and Keith shop for a boat, Veronica is sent out to buy provisions and supplies. She also prepares and sends the Castle to Gory's father. They end up buying a boat called 'Panacea.'  
_

_On the first day, they stay close to shore and Veronica learns about steering, turning, and adjusting the sails. Although she's doing fine for a beginner, she struggles with the new tasks. Every mistake is magnified in her perspective. At the end, they anchor close to the Barrier Islands in Virginia, and the serenity of the location helps Veronica begin to embrace the next step of their adventure._

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: Presentiment

We don't officially set off for Bermuda just yet. For two hours the next day, we practice man overboard drills, rescuing flotation devices with a boat hook until Logan concedes that he'll feel safe going on the foredeck with one of us at the helm.

"It's not so much _you_," he tells me, pretending to whisper. Logan nods his head at Dad. "One sharp turn of the wheel, and it's 'bye-bye, Echolls.' This whole forgiveness thing is just an act. So you've got to be prepared to overpower him and gallantly come to my rescue."

"I prefer to torture you slowly, thank you very much," Dad retorts. "I think you might be scrubbing the head for the rest of the voyage." He pretends to glower at Logan.

I cock my head, marveling at the current state of their relationship. "Arrr, make 'im walk the plank, Dad."

"Humph," Logan responds. "I'm cursed with a plague of scurvy wastrels for a crew." Two days on the water and he's got a glow on his pale skin, a hint of the tan he'd usually be sporting this time of year. The fuzz of his hair is rapidly turning blond, and his beard and mustache are filling in. Dad stops shaving as well: the two of them are constantly joking about being 'seamen' and calling each other 'matey' for the duration. I am referred to as 'the comely wench,' which sends them into hysterics.

Of course, I have to use the 'head' to go to the bathroom, but Dad and Logan seem to delight in unzipping and aiming over the side of the boat—that truly male act of marking one's territory. I hate the tiny bathroom with its 'seacock' and arcane instructions that warn of dire consequences if the lever isn't worked properly.

On _Panacea_, male bonding and a lackadaisical attitude toward hygiene seem to be the order of the day. I suck it up and try to participate in their antics.

The man overboard drills totally unnerved me. Logan can be a tough teacher. He refused to help at all when it was my turn to take the helm, and I struggled to get the boat close enough to grab our drowning life preserver.

When I managed to get the boat eight feet away and the flotation device was just beyond Dad's reach with the boat hook, Logan shook his head and said, "Do it again." The third time I tried, with Dad finally snagging the life preserver, he said, "Okay." Damning with faint praise, as they say.

But I'm still completely confounded by wind direction, and everything about sailing depends on your ability to exploit the wind. I try to push away despairing images of capsizing the boat while at the helm and killing Dad and Logan.

They're still joking around. I zone out, staring at the waves, and then suddenly they stop talking and look at me.

"What?"

Logan repeats, "I said, we're going to practice steering with the windvane."

Now I'm utterly confused. A weathervane tells the wind direction. What the hell? We're going to use a weathervane to steer?

Logan moves to an arrangement of steel tubing extending off the rear of the boat, with ropes leading to the steering wheel and something that looks like a paddle extending down into the water, and another extending high up into the air. Logan says, "Once the sails are trimmed properly, you can use this device to steer, like an auxiliary rudder that responds to the wind. As long as the wind stays steady, the windvane can do all the work of steering."

Motioning to the steering wheel, he says, "It would be too exhausting to be steering constantly. The windvane really isn't an autopilot, but it functions almost like one. All the long distance sailboats have one nowadays, and it was a big factor in which boats I picked for us to look at."

"You mean, I didn't really need to learn how to steer yesterday?"

"The sails have to be set exactly right, or we'll lose speed. You need to understand how steering and sail trim work or you won't be able to use the windvane." He's patient. But for how long? If I don't get this soon, will he get frustrated with me?

"You can sail a boat without steering," Dad chimes in. "You use the sails. Like a windsurfer, twisting the sail to manipulate the board in one direction or another."

I'd never thought about the lack of steering on a windsurfer. The one time I'd tried it, I'd barely managed to stand up, scraping my shins and getting a ridiculous sunburn while I was at it. It was not pleasant, and I didn't try it again.

But I'd had one good run where I managed to hold the sail correctly and zipped twenty feet before crashing into the water. That moment was awesome. Maybe if I'd had a little better luck and a teacher as patient as Logan I'd have learned to love it.

It makes me wonder: why didn't I ever get him to teach me to surf? Did I think it wasn't a worthy pursuit? Or was it that I was worried I wouldn't be good at it? Either way, I'm not too proud of my behavior. I'd defended him to my dad, but I hadn't followed up by actually trying some of Logan's favorite things. I should have shown more interest in things Logan likes ... maybe we'd have—

Futile musings. Focus, so at least I don't screw this up.

We practice all the points of sail with the windvane, and I'm prepared to admit that it's the greatest thing since sliced bread. It's certainly more competent at determining wind direction than I am. Dad and Logan high-five each other, and I coax a smile. "Got some hardtack for us, wench?" Logan asks. "Feelin' a bit parched as well."

Dad snorts. "Honey, how about some sandwiches?"

"Anything for you, Dad," I reply pointedly. "The pirate's gonna have to fend for himself." But I head down to the galley: this is a task I can handle, and it's a relief to feel competent.

I bring up the sandwiches, saying, "I hope you're not assuming because I'm the only girl that I'll be doing all the cooking."

Dad and Logan glance at each other.

"What?"

"Actually ..." Dad starts, before chickening out.

Logan clears his throat. "Your dad's going to be in charge of the engine and making sure we have enough fuel to get there. He's basically going to be checking all the systems, coolant, pumps, tanks, those kinds of things, every single day. I'm going to be in charge of the sails and the rigging, as well as navigating. It's using our skills where they're best employed."

"So that leaves—"

"You're going to be the galley wench," Dad mumbles, trying not to laugh.

"It's actually really important," Logan says. "You've got to conserve water and food, making sure we've got enough to last for the whole voyage. You and I will discuss the boat's estimated arrival, based on our progress, and then you can apportion the meals accordingly. You have to keep track of inventory and use up the foods that spoil faster first. We're depending on you so we don't end up living on crackers after a week. And a good hot meal is incredibly important if we hit bad weather, so you better get used to that crazy stove."

"Oh, you bastards." The stove is on gimbals, so that when the boat tips, the stove stays flat, along with everything you're cooking. But you're tilted like the boat. It's like a funhouse, without the distorted mirrors and the cute boy holding your hand. I'm really not looking forward to this.

Logan raises his eyebrows. "Would you rather be in charge of the sails and the rigging? Or the diesel engine?"

I roll my eyes. "No. You're right. But you better stop calling me the galley wench, or you'll find some saltpeter in your oatmeal."

Dad laughs, smothering it with a cough.

Wolfing down a second sandwich, Logan suggests, with his mouth full, that Dad and I might want to take some Dramamine.

"Um, excuse me?" I query. "What exactly are we going to be doing?"

"You guyzer gwan segur—"

"Swallow. Then speak. Pfft. It's hard to take Blackbeard seriously when he doesn't even know how to eat."

He swallows and takes a swig of water. "I'm going to try to really heel the boat and you guys are going to secure everything down below. I'll make some fast tacks, really try to stir it up to replicate storm conditions."

Dad and I exchange glances. It's going to be bruising work, constantly bracing ourselves against the tilt of the boat, and without the ability to keep our eyes on the horizon, we'll definitely be prone to nausea.

Logan says, "It's got to be done. What if we hit some heavy weather and everything goes flying down to the low side?"

"It could overbalance the boat," Dad says, nodding. "And then we'd broach."

I've gathered that broaching is bad. It's nothing like "broaching a topic," but rather something to do with the boat sinking, or turning upside down—basically my nightmare scenario. I don't ask for an explanation, because I truly don't want to have that image in my brain. Man overboard was scary enough.

Securing everything below deck is hard, but not brutal. Logan gives us a heads-up before slamming the boat into a new heading, and we brace ourselves and watch our possessions on shelves and in the cupboards. Then he falls off so the boat flattens, and then we use bungee cords or redistribute items until everything down below is going to stay put.

We keep busy and mostly I don't feel all that nauseated. Dad seems unaffected by the pitch and roll; he kids around and we work together as a team until we agree that everything is secure.

"All the grog is secured, Cap'n Chumbucket," Dad announces as we emerge into the cockpit.

"Ah, the cockswain and the strumpet reporting for deck duty," Logan answers. He and Dad giggle like lunatics.

I roll my eyes. "And I'm going to blow chow if you two buccaneers don't give it a rest."

Dad takes the helm as Logan sketches something for us to look at. Logan explains, "This is called heaving-to. You do it if the wind is too strong to make headway, so you can go below, be safe and get a little rest."

He draws a couple diagrams, showing the boat oriented a particular way to the wind, with several penciled lines coming off the boat. Logan explains, "You back the jib sail, that means having it on the wrong side to slow the boat, and then you rig a parachute off the bow."

"An actual parachute?" I ask. It's hard to believe there's a sailing term that's an _everyday word_.

"Yep, it's a surplus Air Force parachute. It's like a floating anchor that keeps the boat pointing 45° off the wind—you have to get the angle right by adjusting this bridle." On the sketch, he points at the rope leading to the parachute, which is attached at the bow and and also about one third of the way back on the boat. "Then you have to adjust the length of the line to keep the boat in phase with the waves."

All the jargon takes a second to sink in. "What do you mean, 'in phase?'"

"When we're in a trough, the parachute has to be in a trough. When we're on a crest..." He draws a little picture of the boat perched on a crest and the tethered parachute two crests in front of it, and Dad and I finally get it. "Wave theory—just like in Mr. Wu's class. You sync up the cycles, which means you have to experiment to get the boat exactly on the same trough and crest cycle as the waves. Otherwise, we'd be lurching around, buffeted by the waves and the wind."

He pauses. "Here's the thing: if we have to heave-to, it's going to be blowing hard. You're going to be on the foredeck with the boat riding big swells and the wind threatening to knock you off your feet. You've got to be clipped onto the lifelines and watch what you're doing at all times. Having three people's really going to help; two can handle the chute while the other one steers."

I look up at the placid sky, filled with fluffy white clouds drifting languorously. It's not even as windy as it was yesterday. "It's not really ideal conditions to practice this, is it?"

"I've never done it. I want to try it a few times, even if we don't have a lot of wind. Just reading about it in a book isn't good enough." Heading onto a broad reach, a relatively smooth point of sail, Logan engages the windvane, and the three of us, clipped onto the lifelines that extend from bow to stern, make our way to the foredeck.

We experiment with ropes and cleats until we think we have a workable solution, then Logan takes the helm. He tacks without changing jib sheets to force the jib sail to go against the wind, and Dad and I deploy the parachute. Logan lashes the steering with two bungee cords and we adjust the bridle holding the chute until we're in phase with the waves.

Logan comes up to examine our efforts, and pronounces, "It's pretty cool, right? See how the boat stays steady rigged like this? If we had to, we could heave-to and get some rest, even if it's blowing hard."

I don't say anything, but I'd almost slipped three times, and I'd had trouble attaching my end of the bridle. Imagining doing this with sea spray and wind battering us is too impossible to even consider.

We pull in the chute and do it twice more, switching roles so that each of us learns every part of the procedure. Steering is the hardest job for me. I'm not getting any better at determining wind direction, and it's crucial to get the right angle for this to work. Tentatively, I turn into the wind to invert the jib sail, but we don't have enough power and are turned back downwind. I try again and make it through the dead zone directly into the wind, but once the parachute is deployed Logan has to point with his thumb to get me to change to the proper heading, and I flush, realizing that I can't even do this simple task.

When Dad and Logan come back to the cockpit, Logan sits next to me. "You're doing a lot better. A couple of days at sea, and you'll be a pro. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Right." I don't want to admit that I'm getting completely confused by the jargon and the complicated geometry.

"Sensing the wind is instinctive. You can't learn it in a book. You have to engage all your senses and let your brain process all that information."

"I always thought I was pretty good at engaging my senses."

"Yeah, you are, that's why you're going to figure this out."

"Right." I'm worn out and wishing we could just dock somewhere, but it's only two o'clock and it turns out Logan isn't done yet.

"We've got to practice launching the lifeboat and abandoning ship."

"Man the lifeboats?" I snark, trying to banish the slight quiver in my voice.

Dad nods. "We need to make a checklist and post it in the galley. A go-bag, food, water, first aid kit."

Logan says, "There are flares, a knife, fishing line, a tarp, water and food already packed with the raft. But yeah, we could make a go-bag with some extras. Our money, for one."

I snort. We're completely screwed if we have to ditch and get rescued—we might as well let our dwindling funds go down with the ship. "That money'll come in handy when we engage a criminal attorney for our trial, or at least to buy cigarettes in the slammer. And don't forget duct tape," I add, half-joking, but Logan just nods.

"Cookies," Dad says sagely. "We'll definitely want cookies." He winks at me, and I struggle to smile back.

This is insane. This is _completely_ insane. The rubber life raft is tiny. There's no way we'd survive in that in a storm. Like our PFDs, it's self-inflating and would require a professional to repack it into its hard case, so we practice unlashing and throwing an empty water tank overboard instead and talk through the procedures. Logan and Dad are bantering like pirates again as we practice launching the 'lifeboat,' but I barely hear it.

By the time we motor into a different marina to anchor for the night, I'm completely exhausted. All of these drills for worst-case scenarios are dredging up fears that I've mostly been able to ignore the last few days. Now my terrors have an awful specificity—I can picture with precise detail Logan's face framed in the porthole as the boat sinks. I'm grasping onto the side of the life raft as I watch Dad being swept under surging waves. I imagine Logan being knocked off the boat with the boom because I make a stupid mistake steering. Then Dad and I circle around and around trying to find his lifeless body in impenetrable surf. And then the wind _really_ kicks up, and Dad and I have to abandon the search and somehow sail this monstrosity without Logan's help. Panacea, my ass.

After dinner, I lie down on the foredeck while Dad and Logan go below to listen to the weather radio. I wanted to watch the sunset and attempt to recapture the peace I'd felt the night before, but my eyes flutter closed. The sun has slipped below the horizon when I wake with a jerk. Making my way back toward the cockpit, I hear snippets of conversation from the salon porthole.

"... she's still too tense. ... hard today."

"It can't be helped. We had to—" Logan says.

Dad's exhale is audible up on deck. "Ssh. I know. ... confidence more than anything ... still worried about her breakdown. You know. After ..."

They're talking about me. I crouch down on the deck, with my ear next to the porthole, and keep listening.

Logan says quietly, "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. I'm just worried about her. It's only been two weeks since she— since she got upset. It's not like her to be this tentative. I think she's still blaming herself."

"I don't want to baby her—she'd hate that. And you know it's better if she can help with the sailing."

"No, you're right." Dad sighs again. "There's rain in the forecast—why don't you guys take the V-berth and I'll take the foldout in the salon tonight?"

"Right. We should get a good night's sleep and head out as early as we can. Let's see ... sunrise is at 5:45. I'll go see what she's up to."

I scuttle back to the foredeck and sit down, leaning against the mast. Fighting back tears, I try to compose myself before he can find me. _When did I get so fucking weak?_

_°•°•°_

The mattress in the V-berth is surprisingly comfortable. Nestled into the pointed bow of the boat, the V-shaped room is almost completely taken up by the bed. Here and there, unfinished woodwork mars the luxury effect that this boat would have if it was completely upgraded—but then again, that's why we could afford it. There are cubbies to store things along the sides, several big drawers underneath the bed, and portholes for ventilation.

People live aboard boats like this for years, going from one exotic destination to the next, some of them dreaming and saving for years before they can finally get "away from it all." It's a sparse existence, with not much room for memorabilia, and all available space is utilized with maximum efficiency. And with the need to conserve electricity, fuel and water while underway, life is reduced to the essentials.

Logan shucks off his T-shirt and shorts and crawls into bed with me. I note a large bruise on his upper thigh. We haven't officially departed yet, and he's already injured.

He snuggles next to me, his breath hot against my neck. "Long day, huh?" Lips brush my skin, a little tentative because he's not sure just how much of a loon I am, but it's clear what he'd like to do. We haven't made love since we fought over this trip two weeks ago—the two of us as far apart on that double bed in Chapel Hill as we could be.

He whispers, "I was hoping you might be willing to shiver me timbers, darlin'. Might be hard to find alone time once we're underway ... and with the boat heeling ... 'course we got all these ropes we can put to good use. You can tie me to the mast and have your evil way with me."

He's expecting a laugh, or perhaps a snarky rejoinder. "Guess I'll have to keel-haul you to get you to behave." Weak. Not up to my usual banter standard.

"Hey." He props himself up on an elbow and looks at me. "What's up?"

If I look into his eyes, I might cry. _... worried about her breakdown ..._ "Nothing, I'm just tired. This bed is pretty nice, though." I pretend to stretch, and, because I don't want him to know how bothered I was by their conversation, I stroke his torso.

Yeah. I'm all right with this. I want to make love to him again. Of course I do. "Kiss me, you jackass." I lean into him, offering my mouth for a kiss.

But my heart isn't in it, and Logan notices immediately, pulling away and looking at me intently. "What's wrong?"

"How'd you get that bruise?"

"What bruise?" I touch his thigh gingerly, and he shrugs. "You always get bruises on board. You're pulling on a line and hit a wave, and the winch handle smacks you. You don't even notice at the time. It's no big deal—doesn't hurt at all."

The silence lengthens. He stays focused on me, and I look away. "Veronica. What's wrong?"

"I heard you guys talking." I remember Dad's just on the other side of the wall—I mean bulkhead—and I lower my voice. "I'm sorry I'm not good at this."

He snorts. "If you were taking a class in sailing, you'd be the star. Do you realize how much we've made you learn in two days? You're doing great!"

"No, I'm not, I can't even figure out the wind direction. And I'm—" _I'm afraid I'm going to make a mistake and kill you. And we shouldn't even be in this situation._ "I just feel like ... like something really bad's going to happen, just because I was so stupid back in Neptune. And I keep screwing up, over and over again."

It finally penetrates. He whispers intensely, "This is not your fault, Veronica. Blame Gory and Mercer. Blame Beaver and my father. Blame Jake Kane and The Castle. What the hell—blame me and your dad! We all made mistakes the last few years."

"Yeah, but you're not falling apart. I think you guys are enjoying this."

He's silent, and then Logan says, "Yeah, we are. It's all about hope and having a future. We couldn't stay hunkered down in that basement apartment forever, waiting for the FBI to track us down. And it feels good to do _something_." He caresses my face. "I know it was frightening today—"

"No, it wasn't," I lie.

"Yeah, it was. But you gotta know that there's no one in the world I'd rather have onboard than you. You're smart, and you're fucking courageous. You took on Mercer with a motherfucking unicorn, you told me."

Suddenly I'm consumed with anger. _Doesn't he get it? That Veronica's dead. She died in Chicago._

He eyes me with a puzzled look, and for a second I think I said it aloud. "You didn't give up on the roof. You didn't give up when my asshole father was in your car, ready to kill you! I know you can do this, and I know you'll have my back when I need you."

I evade his gaze. I've never told anyone how scared I was when those things happened. Everyone just assumes that I was brave and unflinching; they don't know that I collapsed like a little baby when Beaver tased me, that I begged Aaron to let me out and pleaded for my daddy to save me.

And as far as Logan? I didn't always have his back, and I don't know why he thinks I will now. I mean, of course I will. But how does he _know_ this?

Tired of waiting for me to respond, he sighs and flops over onto his back. "I'll never be able to repay you for agreeing to do this. I know you didn't want to. I know you're scared and worried. But I couldn't stay in the apartment any longer. I would have run, just taken off when you and your dad weren't around, and disappeared to some beach in South America."

My heart stops beating. I hadn't even considered that he might have been thinking about running. And I probably wouldn't ever have seen him again. Suddenly, I'm very glad that Jane Kuhne walked into J. Crew and made me change my mind. "Oh, god, Logan, I'm so sorry, I'm such a jerk."

He huffs a laugh. "You're not a jerk." Logan rolls over and maneuvers me against him so that we're spooning. Smoothing my hair to the side, he lavishes kisses on the back of my neck. "You're showing a side of you that I've never seen before. You've been such a total badass the last few years. You know, it's okay to not be perfect. Sheesh, let me be the best at something, will ya?"

His lips and breath tickle my neck as he talks. And he knows me too well: it's true that on some level, I'm jealous of his competency. Basically, I'm a conflicted mess of regret, terror and envy. Just perfect.

But he feels good pressed against me. If I don't quite feel proficient, at least I feel a little calmer. And I remember the last time we made love, when the two of us decided to seize the day, like Lilly had told us. He's here with me, he loves me and puts up with me. Come hell or high water—scratch that. Not high water. Rewind. Yes, I can let him be the best at something.

In a patently false voice, I proclaim, "Aye, aye, captain. You know, it occurs to me that I'm not going to want to come near you after a week without showers." I wriggle a little, my ass rubbing against him.

A sharp intake of breath, and then his hand snakes around my belly. "Hah. My pirate magnetism will overwhelm you, wench."

"Is that your peg leg, or are you just glad to see me?"

"Maybe I should hold it against you, so you can decide for yourself?"

"Let the pillaging commence," I whisper.

°•°•°

Afterward, I use the head and, to my surprise, Dad's not sleeping in the salon. I climb the companionway and find him sitting in the cockpit, sipping a drink. Scotch, I decide, as I sit next to him and lean onto his shoulder. "Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yep. How about you?" Dad puts him arm around me.

"Yeah, I'm okay. A little nervous about leaving." I skip right over our bunk antics, but I'm sure that's why Dad's up on deck.

I really love my dad, by the way.

Dad sips his drink and swirls it a little, savoring the unusual treat. "You know, before you were born, some of the other guys on the force had boats. I wanted to get one, but your mom said no. She hated being on the water."

"I didn't know that."

"You remember that model sailboat in my office? It was always a dream of mine, that maybe when I retired, Lianne would change her mind and we could do some sailing. Then the Lilly Kane case happened, Alicia ..." Dad shrugs. "I hadn't thought about it for a long time, and when Logan brought it up, all of a sudden it seemed like fate was saying 'go for it.'"

"I always thought that boat was cool."

"It's going to be okay, you know? Don't sweat the sailing, you're going to figure it out."

"Okay. I know." We sit in silence watching the stars, his arm cuddling me close.


	27. Chapter 27: Prevailing Winds

**TITLE:** Prevailing Winds (27/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 6,918  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter **  
SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'. **  
SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3. **  
WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and flyersgrl. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Logan drills Keith and Veronica on rescuing a man overboard, heaving-to, and abandoning ship, and they learn how to use the auto-steering windvane. Veronica struggles with the new skills and worries about her inability to tell wind direction, but the men are enjoying themselves and joking around. She finds out that she's been assigned the task of managing their food and water supplies. The worst-case-scenario drills ramp up Veronica's anxiety about the voyage. _

_Veronica overhears Logan and her dad talking, remarking on her tentativeness and worrying that she's still affected by her breakdown two weeks earlier. Logan and she talk about it and end up making love. _

_Veronica's dad tells her that owning a sailboat is an old dream of his, and Logan's idea felt like fate was telling him to go for it._

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Prevailing Winds

I wake before the others and sneak on deck, snugging my combination safety harness and self-inflating PFD around my torso. The flotation device, two fabric tubes that attach to the suspender-like harness, seems inadequate, but it's definitely not too uncomfortable and won't get in my way if I'm trying to maneuver on the bow.

Logan had insisted that whenever the boat was underway we had to wear the harnesses, no matter how calm the weather seemed. They clip onto tether lines that span the length of the boat, so if the boat suddenly lurches, you'll be saved by the tether. Worst case, you fly overboard and the flotation device is activated by contact with the water. And no one was to go on the bow unless someone else was in the cockpit. It feels funny to be cinched into this arrangement of ties and ropes, but it's way more comfortable than the three layers of clothing I'd been sporting as 'Mandy.'

Sailing gloves are tucked in the pocket of my fleece and I pull a ball cap onto my head. There's absolutely nothing I can do about my hair at this point—it's not long enough to put into a ponytail since my haircut in Chicago, and the bangs drive me crazy when it's windy. And I need the sun protection on my fair skin, already pinkened from the last two days.

I even have a knife in a little sheath attached to my harness. When I'd asked what it was for, Logan had said obliquely, "Just for emergency, basically. I'm sure it won't come up." I'd laughed it off with a comment about making him walk the plank with it, but my imagination immediately flew to visions of being tangled in ropes under water.

Putting on the sailing 'uniform' helps a little: it makes me feel like I know what I'm doing. Sort of.

The sun has just barely peeked above the horizon, and it's pleasantly chilly, a spectacular June morning. Puffy clouds darkened by the orange rays of the emerging sun float overhead. The sea is a pinkish gray, with striations of coral, tangerine, peach and fiery yellow in the sky above promising another sun-dappled day to begin our voyage.

Turning toward shore, I see the wind rustling the scrub grass of the Barrier Islands dunes and the occasional boat reflecting the beginning rays of the sunrise. A flock of birds wheels and pivots in the sky, startling me.

I'm leaving. Forever. This is the last thing I'll see here, these sand-swept dunes covered with tenacious beachgrass.

Dad and Logan join me, and we motor away from the marina and the United States for good. The sadness I feel is overwhelming, and, although Dad and Logan are joking around again, I volunteer to make breakfast in the galley because I can't bear to watch the land disappearing from sight.

When I emerge with plates of scrambled eggs and cups of coffee for all of us, I keep my eyes averted from the Virginia coastline shrinking beyond our stern.

•°•°•

The most surprising thing about the voyage so far is how boring it is. Logan's been drilling us like a maniac, and I hadn't really put it together that we'd be sailing in one direction for long periods. All that tacking we did the last two days: we're not going to be doing that very often. Even if we're headed upwind, we'll do long tacks, not the constant zig-zagging we were doing off the coast of Virginia.

Right now, we're on a beam reach, at right angles to the wind direction, which is by far my preferred point of sail. The boat sails efficiently, not too far heeled over, and without the instability that we get when we're sailing downwind.

Once we're a few miles out, Logan hands over the steering to Dad and moves around the boat, adjusting lines by infinitesimal amounts. He leans over the gauges and says with satisfaction, "Boat speed's up by a knot." He and Dad start talking about boom vangs, travelers, and outhauls, and I'm completely lost.

Zoning out, I look at the ocean. I don't think I've ever been this far out to sea before. The waves are sometimes greenish, sometimes a gray-blue. Now the light blue sky stretches beyond infinity, with only a few clouds far off on the horizon and the sun burns steadily on my face.

The ocean scenery forever changes and yet stays the same—hundreds, thousands of miles of deep, deep water. I imagine Christopher Columbus and other explorers setting out with no idea where they were going, no GPS, no charts, with only the stars to guide them. That was courage. Compared to them, we're in the lap of technological luxury.

At first, there are other ships: container ships heading for Norfolk, Navy ships, and quite a few pleasure boats. A Coast Guard cutter swoops past us, engines roaring and the boat making a lot of wake. It might be ridiculously paranoiac, but we all sigh with relief when it motors out of our view.

As we sail east, the other boats gradually disappear, and it's just us, with nothing but water all around us. We spot some dolphins far off in the distance. They seem carefree and normal, and we're the interlopers here.

Logan and Dad have worked out a complicated duty schedule for us. Usually, people would just do four hours on, eight hours off, but they wanted to have two people on watch at night, at least until we saw how things went. I interpret this as them not having confidence in me steering at night, but I'm grateful, not offended.

During the day, we each have four hour shifts by ourselves, but at night, we'll have shifts that overlap by two hours. I notice that Logan takes 9pm to 1am and 3am to 6am, and realize he's making sure that he's piloting during the most dangerous hours. He'll need to nap quite a bit to make up for that sleep deficit.

At 7am, Dad hands over the helm to me for my first four-hour shift. He's too wired to nap, so he stays with me. I think I'm doing a terrible job, but he keeps smiling and saying, "You got it, kiddo." We seem to have settled in on a course, so he helps me set the windvane to do the steering, which is a huge relief.

You know how it is to drive a car: your eyes are supposed to be constantly checking the two mirrors and then returning to the road. On a boat, you check the gauges and compass, you glance at the sails to make sure they're full of wind, then you scan the horizon, left to right, and then right to left, making sure that there's no monster container ship heading our way.

If you see anything at all, you get the binoculars and ascertain what it is. There's a radar proximity alarm—more newfangled technology—that would alert us to an approaching ship, but to use it would require some of our precious battery power, so we won't engage it unless visibility is compromised.

Even when I'm not physically doing the steering, it feels exhausting to have to be so alert when the sun, the wind, and the movement take a toll on me physically. Sailing a boat in the ocean seems a little like driving down a perfectly straight highway with unchangeable scenery in the rain. It's easy to lose my focus with the undulating waves hypnotizing me just like windshield wipers thudding from side to side.

The waves are getting bigger as we get further offshore. Sometimes we crest on a wave and surf down into the trough, with a sudden burst of speed that feels reckless and uncontrolled. One particularly big wave sends us flying into the air, only to come down with a jarring thwomp in the next trough. Disengaging the windvane auto-steering, Dad takes the wheel and shows me how to steer with the wave to take advantage of the speed bumps.

I remember Dad teaching me how to drive in the LeBaron. He'd been patient and thorough, and we'd had fun. Mom couldn't deal—anytime I'd made the slightest error, she'd gasp under her breath and clutch the dashboard. Dad would just tell me to slow down, turn here, try it again, all in a calm voice that made me think that I was doing just fine.

And it's the same here. He sits beside me, and occasionally puts out a hand to help me get the optimal steering as we sail over the waves.

The wind picks up, and the waves become a little more unpredictable. Despite my efforts the boat bottoms out in the troughs several times. Each time, I wince, wondering if my incompetence is wrecking poor Panacea. I'm having a hard time steering, and I can't figure out what's wrong. I know Dad's trying to teach me the finer points of steering, but I wish we'd just put the windvane back on.

Logan pops his head out from below. "We feel kind of overpowered." At my confused expression, he explains, "I think the sails are too big. What's the wind speed?"

Dad cranes his neck to look at a gauge. "Sixteen knots. It's picked up quite a bit."

"Let's put a reef in the main and furl the jib. Keith, why don't you steer and Veronica and I will work the sails?" There's a look that passes between them. I wonder: _she needs to learn how to do this or maybe let's build her confidence_. Maybe both. And I have no clue what a reef means.

Logan directs, "First the main, then the jib. Veronica, you and I will go forward to the mast."

Somehow I didn't think I'd be facing my fears quite so soon. Following Logan, I pick my way through the lines and cleats, clip onto the safety lines, and go to the foredeck. As the boat goes up and down in the waves, I lurch back and forth, and the safety tether is really getting a workout.

Logan tells Dad at the helm to release the main and head up into the wind. "That takes the power off, right?" he comments. "Now as I release the halyard holding up the top of the main sail, you'll pull on this reefing line. That pulls the bottom part of the main sail down onto the boom." He gestures, and I nod that I see the correct line. "Then I recleat the halyard and you fasten the reefing line."

We do this, and I manage to do everything correctly, or correctly enough. Logan pats the boom. "Then we go along the boom and use reefing ties to secure the sail to the boom. See? You pull this sail tie through the grommet and tie up the sail."

"Um, tie the sail? Does that mean a knot? Which one?"

"Reefing knot, silly girl."

"Oh my fucking god. Another knot." I roll my eyes, but truthfully it's an easy knot—like tying your shoes with only one loop.

When we're done, the triangle of our main sail is greatly reduced, and yards of sail lie neatly folded along the boom.

Dad says, "Pretty good for a—"

"Don't say it!"

"Landlubber. What's wrong with that?" He chuckles and mouths "wench" in Logan's direction.

"Okay, Veronica, now we're going to furl the jib a quarter of the way. Pull on that line. It's called the inhaul—it'll turn the bottom of the roller furler and wind up the sail on itself—like rolling a sheet of newspaper. I'll tell you when to stop."

I tug on the line. At first nothing happens, and I assume I'm doing it wrong but I can't see a problem. I try again, and with a slight jerk the line comes free. I pull on it until he says "Whoa. See those red marks? That's the equivalent of the first reef."

"First reef?" This word is dumb. Nothing about 'reef' makes me think of making the sails smaller. And why 'first'? I try to slot the terms into my memory banks anyways.

"We could do it again if the wind gets stronger—make the main sail and the jib even smaller. That would be the second reef."

"Okay, I think I got it." Now we have two smaller triangles of fabric catching the wind, and the boat feels much more under control. Dumb word or not, reefing works. First reef, somewhat smaller sails. Second reef, much smaller sails. I wonder if there's a third reef, and then I realize I don't want to think about the conditions that would require that.

Logan moves forward to the bow and, leaning over, adjusts something on deck opposite the now-smaller jib. He's sure-footed, almost as if he anticipates what the boat is going to do. Hanging onto the mast, he calls back, "Keith, tack the boat over."

I watch him as I work the jib sheets. Now, as the foresail whips past him going to the other side, he knows exactly how the fabric and ropes are going to move and delicately avoids getting tangled. Bending over, he repeats the adjustment on the other side and heads back to the cockpit. "All right, Keith, go back to the original heading." We tack again, and this time Logan trims the jib as I watch his proficient maneuvers.

"How do you do that?" I ask.

"What? I just adjusted the blocks, it changes the shape of the jib—"

"I mean, how do you walk around like that as if you're on land?"

"Practice. And truthfully surfing helps." As he passes by, he whispers, "I have excellent balance and positioning, as you well know."

"And you're humble, too."

"Why don't you practice? Clip onto the lifelines and walk up to the bow and back. Remember, one hand on the boat at all times."

The boat is tilted ('heeled'), so I crawl my way up to the bow on the high side, hunching over and keeping one hand on a handhold that follows the outside of the salon. When I get to the mast, I grab on and just feel the wind. It's a roller coaster, a race car speeding into the turn at Indy, a skateboard wildly careening down a hill. And I almost understand why Backup likes to stick his head out the window of my Saturn.

This feels good. This feels very 'Veronica:' hurtling into a dangerous situation without a thought to my safety. I let go of the mast and half-crawl, half-walk to the very front of the bow, sitting and dangling my feet over the edge while hanging onto the lifelines. Water sprays onto my legs and the feeling of the wind is even more intense here. All I need is my own personal Leo DiCaprio … and here he comes.

Logan sits down beside me, mimicking my positioning. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah. The wind is … different … here."

"Apparent wind. The wind that you feel. The wind that the boat makes by going forward. Like when you ride a bike and you feel the wind, which is really the air as you rush through it."

_Apparent wind_. I remember seeing the phrase in my sailing text and not really getting it. Turning to look at him, I say, "Is that why I'm having so much trouble figuring out which direction the wind is?"

"Partly. Plus it's harder in a big boat. If you'd learned in a little boat, like I did, you'd catch on faster."

Apparent wind: it keeps niggling at me. And then I realize. This whole last year I've been running headlong into trouble, making my own wind. Everyone's been pulled into my wake, my apparent wind. The eddies and updrafts of my actions have led us to this moment. What felt like good ol' adrenaline at the time was me teetering out of control, tossed by the waves of a stormy sea and dragging everyone along with me.

And now here we are, in the tumult.

I slip my fingers into Logan's and try to fight off the dread. "You know, Duncan used to take me out on his dinghy. A Hunter, I think it called it."

"Hunter 14. Yeah, I went out with him a few times, too."

"Why do you think he never taught me this stuff?"

He shrugs. "Maybe he liked being the smartest guy in the boat, and thought you'd blow him out of the water if he explained things."

"Come on."

"Duncan always knocked you down a peg. Rewarded you when you were a good little girl. Hated that you were independent and smart."

Is that what Duncan did? I remember him telling me my snooping was cute. If Logan had ever said that, I'd have called him on his shit. In fact, I relished busting Logan's chops whether he needed it or not … but Duncan— Well, there were a lot of "I love you's" and "Whatcha thinkin' about's?" and "You're so adorable's."

And even when he chucked me under the chin and laughed about my detecting, I'd let it slide. Why did I let Duncan do that? _Duncan hated that you were independent and smart._ "It never seemed like that to me. At least … not then."

"Duncan was the guy you were _supposed_ to love. Prince Charming, handsome and rich. And, except for your execrable pedigree, you were exactly the kind of girl Celeste wanted for him."

I snort. "Execrable pedigree. Understatement of the year." Sniffing the air, I say, "I thought it'd be fishy smelling. It's so clean and fresh. But salty. My lips taste like salt."

"Chapstick. Don't forget to use it."

"Yeah, I won't. And my sunscreen and hat."

"You really are doing great. I wouldn't have dared make this voyage if I didn't think you could pick this up quickly. I'm depending on you."

"The wench makes good." I lean against him and he puts his arm around me. "Thanks. I am understanding more all the time."

"I know you are. Speaking of understanding, I've got another book for you to read."

I groan.

"It's not that bad. It's about cooking on board and managing food without refrigeration. I got our shopping list from this book, and maybe you'll want to try a few of the recipes. Plus you need to start keeping track of our water consumption. If the wind dies, we'll need to ration our supplies. There's always a tradeoff: use more fuel by motoring, or use more food and water by sailing in light winds. We have to be on top of this so we make good decisions."

"I got it under control. I can handle it."

"I know you can. Don't forget, this is still your watch. Let's get you back to the cockpit so your dad gets a little rest."

"What about you? How are you going to get enough sleep?"

"I've got six hours from 3pm to 9pm to crash. You guys can handle it without me for that long. But you'll call me if the conditions change, right? Even if I'm sound asleep?"

"Absolutely."

•°•°•

The rest of my watch passes uneventfully until 10:30am. The seas calmed down a bit, and Dad and Logan helped me to engage the windvane to do our steering. They're down below, looking at the engine and trying to make sense of the repair manuals, just in case.

I've been studying my provisions book and making notes on water consumption. Dad and I had shared the cooking duties after Mom left, but truthfully we'd relied a little too much on takeout and pasta, with an occasional steak on the grill when we could afford it.

This is a little harder: keeping a running inventory and designing menus that use up food just before it spoils. The microwave would burn through our day's allotment of battery power in a couple minutes, so the cantankerous swiveling stove is my main weapon.

I've already made a couple mistakes. The book says to plan your icebox use so you only open it once or twice a day. Common sense, really, but I'm taking this job seriously. I foresee a lot of chili and oatmeal in my future: the book stresses that a warm meal is crucial when the crew is tired.

And then, just as I put aside my notes on water consumption formulas, the sails, still reefed, start fluttering. I debate going to get my pirate companions for help, and reject it. _I can do this._

I know we need to try to maintain this heading, and the windvane is trying to steer that course. So I just have to trim the sails. Simple, right? I've done this before.

But never unsupervised.

I pull in the mainsheet and the fluttering is worse. The boat slows appreciably. So I let it out, just a little at a time, and do the same with the jib. Success … the boat picks up speed and _it just feels right._

I realize the wind has shifted to the south so that we're now on a beam reach instead of close-hauled. It takes a second to sink in. I've correctly identified the wind direction. Sure, I used the boat to help me figure it out, but that's what you're supposed to do.

Logan emerges from below and frowns at the sails. "Did we change direction?"

"No, the wind shifted. To the south, I think." I take a breath and say more strongly, "The wind shifted from southeast to south and we can sail a beam reach now."

Smiling, Logan checks the instruments and concurs. "Hmm. If this wind keeps up, maybe we can change our heading and sail the rhumb line to the Caribbean."

"Rum line? Is that another pirate joke?"

"Nope. More like rhombus, in geometry. It means instead of heading toward Bermuda and then changing our course south, we can just sail straight toward the Caribbean, thus reducing our sailing distance."

"Like the hypotenuse of a triangle."

"Exactly." He squints up the mast, calculating some variable of rope deployment that's beyond me at this point.

"Well, duh, let's do that," I say. The faster we're done with this, the better—it seems completely obvious to me.

"It's not that simple. By sailing toward Bermuda, we have a place to stop halfway if we have any mechanical problems. The rhumb line means we'll be equidistant from Florida and Bermuda for most of the way—if we have problems, we might not make it to either one. And that's if the wind cooperates. Sailing the two legs of the triangle will probably be easier sailing, even if takes us longer."

_Mechanical problems._ Looking around the boat, I realize just how many things there are that could break at any moment. We really don't want to stop in Bermuda if we can help it. Unlike the Caribbean, Bermuda's customs officers have their shit together, and our bogus documents just might raise a red flag. They also are less willing to take a bribe, I've gathered.

"So how do we know what to do?"

"Don't worry about it yet. I want to stay on this course until we pass the Gulf Stream no matter what, and then we can talk about it."

As I make a mental note to look up whatever the hell the Gulf Stream is, he produces a sheet of paper labeled 'Ship's Log,' with information under the headings 'COG°,' 'SOG (kts),' 'Lat/Long,' and several others that are less obtuse like wind speed. The first five rows, labeled 0600, 0700, 0800, 0900, and 1000 are already filled in. He fills in 1100 as our current time and then begins recording data, tapping the navigation station to bring up different screens.

More jargon to learn—it seems endless. I point at the log sheet. "COG? SOG?"

"Course over ground, speed over ground. Lat/Long is our GPS reading. I'll be using these numbers to plot our position on the chart." He goes through each column with me, pointing at the relevant dial on the console. "From now on, I'd like you to take care of entering data in the log when you're on watch. Every hour. Do you think you got it? You could come back up at 1200 and help me with the readings, if you'd like."

"Yeah, that would be good to practice one more time." This job feels okay. Numbers are concrete and don't shift around. They're going to ensure our safety. I hope. And the navigation station is pretty intuitive, for people used to computers. "Doesn't that computer program do all the navigation?"

He just looks at me, waiting for me to get it.

"Oh, right. Redundant systems, I remember." And if we have a disaster and all our instruments fail, or if the engine dies and we can't charge our batteries every day, we can somehow use pencil and paper to navigate our way out of the Bermuda Triangle. Just fucking great.

Logan says, "I know it's not what you want to hear. But on a sailboat, we expect things to go wrong. And we make sure that we're able to deal with those things."

I nod.

"We're going to be fine. I promise."

"Yeah, I'm going to go work on getting lunch ready."

In the galley, I lean on the sink for several minutes, trying to get my anxiety a little more under control. Down here, it's noisier, with the water rushing by the hull, spray hitting the portholes, the creaking of the mast and the boat itself, and subtle noises of things shifting as the boat plows through the waves. Without the white noise of the wind to distract you, you hear the sea, or the effects of the sea at least.

It's impossible to forget for even one second that we're completely at the mercy of the ocean and the wind.

•°•°•

After serving lunch (soup from a can, sandwiches and a salad) to my pirate companions, I look again at the watch schedule and realize I should try to sleep. This is my longest time off before coming back on at 7pm, so I head for the V-berth and pop a Dramamine, hoping to get drowsy.

I'd bought a few books at a library used book sale for 10¢ each. Angels and Demons by Dan Brown is completely trashy but escapist, and I fall asleep as Robert Langdon is being swiftly transported to a lab in Geneva, Switzerland.

Some time later I hear Dad and Logan talking about clocks. No, something about the wind. And then Logan's snuggling next to me. Drowsily, I mumble, "You set up the watches this way on purpose."

"Afternoon delight, baby."

"What was that about clocks?"

"Nothing to worry about."

And then I'm asleep again. The next thing I know is Dad shaking me awake. "Six o'clock, honey. Time to make supper and then your watch starts at seven."

"I know, I know." I glance at Logan slumbering obliviously beside me. He was tired. We're all tired. Dad has probably the worst deal with our shift system—he has to try to get the majority of his rest from 7am to 3pm—but it's clear that, at least in the beginning, it's a good idea to have two people on deck when it's dark.

The dangers of falling asleep, an errant container from a ship or a log, even another boat on a collision course are all magnified under cover of darkness. The possibility for errors in navigation or decision-making is far greater in the early morning hours, so we all agree that this rotation is the best solution. Overnight tonight will be hard for Dad, because he was only able to nap for a couple hours today, but tomorrow I'm betting he'll sleep soundly.

I bring dinner up to the cockpit. Dad and I pig out on Swedish meatballs with noodles, heated up from a frozen packet. Unrefrigerated salad stuff goes bad quickly, so we also have iceberg lettuce with tomato, from our stock of fresh fruits and veggies stored in nets suspended from the galley ceiling. The salad dressing comes from single serve packets I'd snagged from a salad bar before we left. And I'd managed to only open the icebox once, with careful planning.

Water for Dad, coffee for me. Instant coffee … bleah. But I need the caffeine. Grapes and cheese for dessert. A successful dinner, I'd say, and I feel good about a job well done.

"Everything tastes better on the water," Dad says, wiping some gravy off his mouth.

The main sail isn't reefed anymore, and the jib is completely unfurled. At some point during my snooze, the wind must have dropped. Right now, we're moving comfortably fast. I look at the log. Dad's already filled in the data for 1900. "The wind is from the west now? Wasn't it coming from the south before?"

He nods.

As far as I can tell, the log seems to indicate that we're making good progress on our intended course. I make a mental note to have Logan show me his navigation calculations.

Reading my mind, Dad says, "We're really cruising. _Panacea_ is a great boat."

"Well, I don't have a frame of reference to comment on that, but yeah, we seem to be moving well."

"We were lucky to get this boat. The owner had her 95% ready to take a cruise up to Maine for the summer."

"So what happened?"

Dad drinks some water, a delaying tactic. "Not really sure."

_What the hell are they keeping from me now?_ "You know, you guys never told me the circumstances about why this boat was for sale."

Dad sighs. "The owner had a heart attack about ten miles out while he was trying to fix something on the engine. The wife wasn't as good a skipper as he was, and she had a hard time sailing back to shore. He didn't survive, and she swore she'd never set foot on the boat again. Her kids took care of selling it for her."

"Great, the boat is cursed." Now I'm picturing Dad lying on the floor of the salon, writhing and clutching his chest. I grab the last few slices of cheese off his plate. "No more cheese for you. How high was your cholesterol the last time you went to the doctor?"

"I don't need no stinking doctor."

"Da-aad."

"My cholesterol is fine. My blood pressure is good. Other than my follicular issues, I'm completely healthy."

Dad is forty-five and very active. The only health issue he's ever complained about is his back, and he could stand to lose ten pounds. Better than most men his age.

Still, we've all been under a lot of stress lately. Is that a new wrinkle on his forehead? I'm going to make myself crazy worrying. Logan's voice: _'per capita, sailing is much safer than driving a car.'_ Gotta just keep telling myself that.

With a grin, Dad snatches back his cheese. "A little provolone never hurt anyone." At my expression, he adds, "He was seventy years old, Veronica. Yes, it was tragic. And now I'm going to have my cheese." He takes a bite and winks at me.

The ocean seems different from earlier in the day. The air is warmer and more turbulent and there are more birds, hundreds of them. I see a school of flying fish leaping into the air and disappearing again into the surf. Cumulus clouds dot the horizon, and the water is a deeper blue, almost indigo, with huge rolling waves.

Dad says, "We just entered the Gulf Stream. It's a giant current that extends from Florida to Newfoundland. The water's warmer and moving faster here, so it's a little rougher than the water earlier today. Some people call it a river in the ocean—a river that's about sixty miles wide. It can be challenging to cross the Gulf Stream, but we're doing great."

_Challenging._ I feel like he's minimizing the situation, and I hate that he feels he has to do that. "How many miles to Bermuda again?"

"About seven hundred. And then about a thousand to the Caribbean."

I remember they'd said we could sail between a hundred and a hundred twenty miles per day. Five to eight days to Bermuda, eight to twelve to the Caribbean. "Did he say anything about sailing the rhumb line to you? You know, going directly to the Caribbean."

Dad shrugs. "We talked about it. It really depends on the weather and how the boat is holding up. I think Logan wants to discuss it after we get past the Gulf Stream."

Both of us fall silent, just enjoying the ride for a few moments. On this point of sail (a broad reach), we're doing a lot of surfing with the wind almost directly behind us.

Dad clears his throat. "If the wind shifts to the northwest, you need to get Logan up on deck early. Could be a storm ahead. I changed our course a little bit. We're headed a little south of Bermuda right now, so we're not on a dead run."

With the wind directly behind us, the boat would be on a 'dead run.' We'd gone through jibing two days ago, when you change direction with the wind coming from our back, and the power of the boom to fly across the centerline was awesome, but not in a good way.

"Keep on a broad reach, honey. You know that we don't want an accidental jibe."

In other words, when the wind suddenly shifts behind the boat, it can force the sail over to the other side in an uncontrolled manner. Logan had done it once so I could see just how dangerous it was. I'm going to have to really pay attention to wind direction.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"What were you guys talking about before? Something about clocks?"

He hesitates. "When the wind clocks around, going from east to south to west to north like going around a clock, a lot of times it means a storm is coming. It could get rough tonight."

Dad yawns. "I gotta get some shut-eye. Call Logan right away if the wind shifts toward the northwest. Wake him up at eight-thirty no matter what so he can check the weather fax. We want to be prepared if the weather deteriorates."

Still yawning, he heads down the companionway, and I don't tell him that I don't think I'm ready for this.

•°•°•

I get a routine going. Setting an alarm on my watch, I check the wind speed and direction every five minutes and use the binoculars to search the water surface for potential hazards. Then I squint up at the sails, looking for fluttering, and reassure myself that the wind hasn't 'clocked.'

I hate all these words, some familiar with new meanings, some completely new to me, yet as old as time. A lot of the sailing jargon dates from a time when European explorers and Vikings and Polynesians before them ruled the oceans. Sailing uses the same principles it did when Magellan circumnavigated the globe and Amerigo Vespucci lent his name to the country I'm never going to be able to return to.

Yet I'm starting to speak the lingo. Not with the precision of Dad or Logan, but I've learned a lot of these words. And they have a logic, as hard as it is to discern on first glance.

In between my obsessive checks of the wind direction, I think about the conversation Logan and I had had about apparent wind. They say that sailing is meditative. There's a lot more solitude than I'd imagined, and plenty of time to think. Too much time to think.

I think about Logan, suffering in my wake as I'd flailed around this past year. He'd gotten himself put on probation to revenge me, yet I was the one who'd been foolhardy. People had hailed me as heroic, but really my actions in catching the Hearst rapist were incredibly risky and I was lucky not to have been raped or killed.

And then the debacle with the Castle. What had I been thinking, doing that to Wallace? Look at how Logan and Mac got pulled into it too. And my dad had to pull my bacon out of the fire after I'd … I can barely even say it now. I broke into a man's house. I stole. I lied.

Clearly, I was as destructive as a hurricane to the people around me.

Over my shoulder, the sun is starting to set, an accusatory golden orb sinking below the steely seas. Land hasn't been visible for hours; it's just water, waves and wind everywhere with that solar focal point drawing everything into its orbit. Black clouds track across the horizon, and I wonder if that's a storm chasing us.

I've been chasing a storm practically since Lilly died. Maybe this time the storm is chasing me.

•°•°•

8:00. The wind is getting stronger.

8:15. We need to do that reefing thing again, I think. I keep checking the wind speed. It's not any higher, but it feels … unsettled.

8:30. Finally I can go wake up Logan.

He wakes quickly. I put on the kettle for coffee and heat up his supper. Five minutes pass as I stir diligently, and my watch alarm goes off. He's done brushing his teeth, and I motion to the stove as he pulls his fingers through his hair. "Hot water for coffee. Swedish meatballs—they're actually pretty good. I should get back up there. It's actually kind of blowing a bit." I realize when I say _blowing a bit_ that I've unconsciously picked up Logan's terminology.

"Okay," he says, grabbing a mug and pouring a spoonful of instant coffee in it. We've got radiated Parmalat milk too: we're not barbarians. He adds a healthy dollop along with a packet of sugar. Still, he grimaces at the taste.

I climb back up to the cockpit and resume my watch. His head pops up through the companionway a few moments later. Logan sips at his coffee and looks at the sky. "Wind speed?"

"16 knots. But it's gusty. I think we need to do that reef again."

"Yeah. Let me finish this coffee, and we'll do it together."

I don't know how we're going to do it with only two people. But his tone is matter-of-fact, and it calms me.

He reemerges, having donned his fleece and his harness. "You've got your foul weather gear up here?"

"It's in the locker. You think it's going to rain?"

He points with his chin to the sky. "I think it's going to pour. You're definitely right about reefing. I'm going to do two reefs this time. Just stay on the steering; I'll tell you what to do."

I disengage the windvane and begin manual steering. He goes to the mast and shouts steering instructions to me. I watch as he releases the main halyard, grabs the reefing line and hauls down the main with an elegance that surprises me. I can see that he's using his body weight to make the task easier.

As soon as the main is down to the second reef point, he's secured the two lines again—while I would have been standing there with my thumb up my ass trying to remember the next step. He's so good at this. I hadn't realized that he could almost sail this boat by himself.

I pass the sail ties to him, and he quickly secures the sail to the boom, the knots clearly child's play to him. Returning to the mast, he calls out, "Okay—pull on the inhaul to roll up the jib. I'll tell you when. A little more … that's good right there. Resume our old heading."

I cleat the line again, and the boat settles in. I decide that I like reefing even more than the windvane, and then I realize that reefing means slowing down, even more time spent trying to battle the wind and the ocean.

"You almost don't need me and Dad to sail this thing," I say.

"I told you—when I went with Aaron and my mom to the Virgin Islands, they were drunk the whole time. I did all the sailing. Usually, if they tried to steer, they'd hit a sand bar or break something on the boat. After a while, I just started taking over, and they didn't give a shit. They didn't really like sailing; it was just something that you 'did,' if you were movie stars with money to burn."

Logan says it so matter-of-factly that it almost sounds like a memorized speech. He glances at the compass again and says, "You're good? I'm going to go below; I have to check the weather fax and see what's going on with this storm. Maybe we can try to change our course, and just catch the edge of it."

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Just yell if you need me." Purposeful and apparently unconcerned about the weather, he disappears down the companionway.

It's ridiculous how much more confident I feel knowing that he's in charge; he's seven feet away from me, within hearing distance if the wind scares me again. And then I shiver. We're heading into a storm on a 36' boat.


	28. Chapter 28: Pandemonium

**TITLE:** Pandemonium (28/?)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 7,703  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and flyersgrl. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_They finally set sail for Bermuda, and Veronica begins to learn what long distance sailing is really like—a lot of the same for long periods and exhaustion from looking at the unchanging seas. She works on her skills and tries to adjust to the schedule. Veronica learns how to reef, or reduce, the sails if the wind is strong. She starts to become more competent in discerning wind direction and takes her job as 'galley wench' seriously._

_When she comes back on watch at dinnertime, she learns that there is a strong likelihood of a storm. Steering alone in the cockpit, she worries as the winds increase, until finally it's time to wake Logan to help her._

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Pandemonium

As the sun disappears below the horizon, the winds keep getting stronger. Twenty knots. Thirty. By ten o'clock, we're battling forty knots and we've decided to put the third reef in the sail. "So I'm steering into the wind again, right?" I ask.

Logan appears thoughtful. "I don't think we can. I'm afraid if we steer into the wind with it this strong, we'll lose control and get slammed around. Head up a little, but not directly into the wind, then loosen the main sheet. That'll slow down the boat a little. Remember how I showed you that letting go slowed the boat?"

I nod.

He says, "If we do that, I'll be able to get the reef in."

"Let out the jib too?"

"Yeah, when I get to the mast. Sail a close reach, about 45° off the wind."

I nod that I understand, and he watches while I do it. "That's it. Keep it right there." He starts to move forward, and turns back to me. "Veronica? Don't let the boat get parallel to the wave surge. That's what causes a broach. Keep it right here. No matter what, don't let the waves hit us on the side."

_Broach._ There's that word that they didn't want to explain to me. Waves hitting the side of the boat—suddenly it's clear. The waves will flip us up onto our side, and then upside down. Broaching is very bad.

'Turtling,' that was the word Duncan had laughingly used when I'd pulled the tiller the wrong way and completely flipped over the boat. I remember how easy it was to flip that boat, and it doesn't seem very comical right about now. "What do I do if it starts happening?"

"Turn upwind. Tack if you have to. Yell first so I grab on and duck. 'Hard alee,' remember?"

And then he's off to the mast, before my fears can paralyze me. Every bit of my focus is on where is the wind and am I steering correctly. I can't screw this up: he's on the foredeck in forty knot winds.

My eyes fly from the compass to the sails to the waves, and I try to superimpose the little diagrams from my book onto the situation. The darkness is blanketing us now—no moon to guide our way, and the stars are obscured by clouds.

This time, even Logan staggers a little with the swaying of the boat. When I ease the lines controlling the sails, he has to use his whole body weight against the force of the wind to pull the mainsail down into a third reef. I grab sail ties to hand to him, but he shakes his head 'no,' shouting 'in a minute.' The wind whips his words past my ears, but I get the gist.

"We need Dad," I say urgently as Logan returns to the cockpit and begins furling up the jib. He's not ignoring me, but he doesn't take time to answer, completely focused on his job. It doesn't want to furl at first, and I say, "It did that yesterday."

He gives me a worried glance, and tries again. The sail finally moves, shrinking as it wraps around the wire leading from the bow to the top of the mast. "You should have told me."

"I'm sorry! I thought I was doing it wrong."

He uses the winch to trim the jib and then pulls in the mainsail, and the wild flapping of the sails stops. Steering is suddenly more responsive. Grabbing the sail ties, he secures the excess sail to the boom, an easier task now that the boat's more under control. Logan turns to me and says, "It's okay. Just tell me everything. Is there anything else that you've had trouble with? Think, Veronica."

I shake my head 'no.' "I'm sorry." _Oh my god, I've totally fucked up_.

"It's okay," he repeats. "Everything breaks on a sailboat. It's almost impossible to do perfect maintenance. You just prepare for it and deal with it when it happens."

"Did I break it?"

"No! Listen to me. When I looked at sailboats, there was a decision to be made. The roller furler is easier, because we don't have to change sails all the time. Without being able to roll up the jib, you have to take it down and put up a smaller one, and then put back the old one as soon as the wind calms down a little. It's exhausting, and a lot of work. And it means one or two of us all the way up on the bow in high winds."

I nod that I understand.

He continues, "But sometimes roller furlers have problems. The sea air is corrosive, and there are bearings in there that sometimes just wear out. When the wind dies, I'll take a look at it and see if I can fix it."

"When the wind dies," I echo. "You're sure I didn't break it?"

"Positive. All right. I'm going to steer. You go wake up your dad. We've got some decisions to make, and I don't want to make them alone."

_Count me out,_ I think. I've already made too many wrong decisions. Handing over the steering to Logan, I start down the companionway.

"Oh, and Veronica?" I turn, and he adds, "Throw some baked potatoes in the oven. If it's cold, they'll warm our hands, and they'll be good eating, hot and not greasy, if we're starving. Take some Dramamine, and give some to your dad."

"What about you?"

"Already done."

I hadn't considered that he might need help with nausea too.

°•°•°

We huddle in the cockpit, and Logan explains what's happening. "There are three storms. Two of them will pass us by, but they're adding to the strength of the third. If we change course and run before the wind, we might be able to get far enough south that we'll just hit the edge of the storm."

"This isn't the storm?" I say incredulously.

I'm trying to understand the words. I think he's saying that we'll go straight downwind, with gale-force winds at our back, to try to escape the storm. Which they've stressed is dangerous, because the wind can grab the boom and make it fly to the opposite side, an 'accidental jibe.' "Are you saying that the weather's going to get worse?"

"Yeah. In fact, we should put on our foul weather gear now. You can leave it unzipped so you don't get too hot, but I think the skies are going to open up and dump buckets on us."

Dad opens the locker in the cockpit and passes me my raingear before grabbing his own and Logan's. Dad asks, "So what's the decision?"

"You know the problem with running? Especially with the sea so turbulent." Logan glances at me, and I flush, realizing he's thinking about hiding something from me again.

"Accidental jibe," I say quietly. "Give it to me straight, goddammit."

They look at me with surprise, and then Logan says, "Not just that. If the waves get underneath the stern when we're in a trough, the surf can force us to flip ass over teakettle. Pitchpoling, it's called."

"Of course there's a word for it," I say. "It can't just be called 'really-fucking-bad?'"

"I like 'ass over teakettle,'" Dad says. "Very colorful."

"So how likely is this 'pitchpoling?' I mean, I can't weigh in on this when you guys refuse to share anything bad with me," I say.

"I think if I'm steering, we'll be okay," Logan says, with less confidence than I'd like. "We could try it for a while, and see how it feels—try to get further away from the center of the storm. We can always stop and heave-to. "

Oh fuck. I forgot about that.

°•°•°

I'd thought I'd experienced surfing down a wave in the boat, but truly I hadn't. This is the roller coaster from hell. At each crest, we feel airborne, and then we crash down into a trough, with Logan fighting the helm to meet each wave at a 45° angle. Our bow slices into the water, and droplets go flying.

We've put the jib out on the opposite side of the main, which scared the _living fuck_ out of me, but it doesn't seem any worse for stability, and Logan said it would give us more speed and get us out of the storm's path faster. The sails are so tiny that it seems ridiculous, but Logan said sometimes people take down the sails entirely and the boat will still be pushed by the wind.

It doesn't help that we can barely see where we're going in the impenetrable darkness. Logan switches on the radar proximity detector, but all of us are constantly straining our eyes, looking for boats or other obstacles in our path.

Although it hasn't rained more than a few drops, we're getting soaked by sea spray. And I hear the boat making sounds it never did before: the groans of metal and wood, stressed beyond tolerances; metal wires shrieking with the wind; water rushing on deck, seeking entrance into our quarters; and a constant flapping of the sail fabric, no matter how the lines are trimmed.

Then there are sounds that I can't identify, and I try to ignore them because I assume they are _very bad._ Over everything is the howling of the wind. I can feel the storm in every cell of my body. Instinct is telling me to cower in my bunk and wait for death to come, praying that it's fast and peaceful.

But no. There's work to be done. Logan tells Dad to get the emergency tiller, because the steering mechanism is 'taking a beating.' Dad seems to know what he means, and digs into the storage cabinet in the cockpit. From the jumble of ropes, rubber oblong things and extra PFDs, he pulls out a long and thin red plastic case.

My job is to hand him tools, like a surgery nurse. After a few minutes and a bit of cursing, there's now a wooden stick protruding from the stern into the cockpit. Duncan's sailboat had one just like it, but smaller.

Logan grabs the tiller, and the steering wheel now spins freely. I watch for a minute and get totally confused. The tiller seems to work opposite the way the wheel does, and I'm petrified that I'm going to have to steer.

I'm told to find our bungee cords in the cockpit locker. Everything's been tossed around in this underseat storage compartment, and even with the flashlight it's hard to locate the bungees. I finally come up with four of them. Logan sees me rooting around and tells me to zip them into the pocket of my foul weather gear so we know exactly where they are.

It's warm and humid, but all three of us are drenched with salt spray and shivering inside our yellow raingear. The water finds its way inside our jackets, making a sodden mess of our clothes. And the wind whips away all of your body heat. We all have our hoods tied on, trying to keep hypothermia at bay.

When I'd run down below to turn off the oven baking our potatoes, I'd seen a stream of water flowing back and forth with the lurching of the boat. I peeked in the V-berth, and water was dripping from one of the portholes onto the bed. I'd reported it to Logan, and he'd said, "We'll deal with it later. It'll be fine." I hand two foil-wrapped potatoes each to Dad and Logan. My fingers are curled around my own in my pockets—my stomach's too roiled to consider eating but the warmth is comforting.

The end of my watch comes and goes. I ask if I should try to go below and get some rest, and Logan shakes his head. "I don't know how much longer we can do this. I'm getting tired. We're going to have to heave-to soon. Fifteen more minutes, maybe. Maybe you could make some more coffee. Or tea. Let's try that ginger tea."

Once I get below, I decide I better use the bathroom now. In the cramped little closet, I get banged back and forth and half of my pee goes on the floor. Triple-checking the instructions for evacuating the bowl, I push the plunger, hoping I don't see the ocean coming in through the toilet to sink us. I watch for several minutes, braced against the wall of the tiny head, until I'm certain that we're not going to have a flood.

When I get back on deck with tea, Dad's trying to pee over the side too, with about as much success as I had. Modesty's completely gone, for all of us. The ginger tea is surprisingly good, and it helps with the nausea. I eat a few bites of my potato, and my stomach feels better for it.

And then we're flying. The boat leaps from a crest, hanging precipitously in the air, defying gravity. With a sickening thump, we hit the bottom of the crest, and then the boat tilts forward toward the bow. I can't help looking back—there's a black wall of water, frothing like a mad dog, racing toward us and insinuating itself under our stern. "Logan!" I scream and point.

He glances, and with a split-second to make a decision, he pushes the tiller and we turn. The jib flies wildly, making us even more unstable, but we don't flip over our bow. A tremendous spout of water soaks the boat, so much so that it almost feels like we're underwater for ten long seconds.

"We've got to heave-to!" Logan shouts over the keening winds. "I'll tack to get the jib backwinded, and then you guys pull out the parachute and get it attached. Hand signals." He shows us A-OK for 'that's good,' slicing across the neck for 'abort,' and moving one finger in a circle for 'try it again or keep going.'

'Abort.' _What's left if we can't manage to heave-to?_ 'Abandon ship,' that's the highest alert level we have. I glance at the pitiful liferaft lashed to the deck, and vow that we're going to get this maneuver to work.

_Somehow, we've got to weather the storm,_ I think, realizing just how that expression came into being. Absurdly it crosses my mind that we should 'batten the hatches.'

And then it starts to rain.

°•°•°

It's raining like a motherfucker now, the skies pouring buckets and the seas spouting spray: unrelenting great gouts of water from all sides. Dad and I are slip-sliding our way onto the bow. My boat shoes help, but the deck is a skating rink that careens unpredictably, with the wind threatening to push you overboard. I've never loved my harness more than I do right now.

But we know what to do after practicing, and somehow we get the parachute overboard and fidget with the bridle until it seems right. Dad shouts in my ear, "More line. We've got to get it out to the next crest!" I ease out the rope from the winch, the way they'd taught me, protecting my hands, a little bit at a time, as controlled as I can make it. "More," he calls. "A little more. Okay." I cleat the line and we look at Logan. He gives us the 'A-OK' and we head back to the cockpit.

He's fighting the tiller, constantly having to push it to get the nose of the boat to stay 45° off the wind. But if he just leaves it alone, the boat starts to turn and the sails flap, with the boat heaving nauseatingly from side to side in the surf. I try to understand how the tiller relates to steering, but I just get more confused.

Logan yells, "She keeps trying to turn downwind. We have too much windage."

I don't think Dad understands what he means either.

"We've got to roll up the jib all the way. Do it, Veronica. Keith, keep your hand on the main sheet and be ready to ease if we start sailing."

I find the furling line, and haul hard. It won't move. "Goddammit! It's stuck again."

"Keep trying!" Logan shouts.

"Switch with me," Dad yells. We change jobs, but he can't make it move either.

Logan's face is creased with worry. "We've got to douse that jib! You've got to go up on the bow and pull it down." There's no question of someone else taking over the steering; Logan is barely managing to keep us alive with his far greater expertise.

"I got it," Dad says.

But Logan grabs his shoulder and says, "No. You need to both go."

°•°•°

I've never done this before. Every sail was already installed when I got on board. I have only the slightest idea how this part of the boat functions. Something about a halyard and a groove…oh, who the fuck knows.

Dad talks me through it twice before we go forward. I see Logan struggling with the strain of keeping the boat at a comfortable angle to the wind; he's getting tired, and he can't do this forever. We're all soaked and miserable, and the rain keeps beating us down.

I crawl like a little baby, I'm not ashamed to say. Usually it's 'one hand for the boat,' but right now, it's 'two hands.' And then Dad and I reach the mast. He'll stay at the mast to work the rope attached to the head of the sail, but I have to go all the way to the bow to pull on the foot of the sail.

We had to let the jib all the way out in order to pull it down, and the amount of fabric pulsing with wind seems insane. The wet mylar sail stings when it grazes my cheek. At the mast, Dad uncleats a line and pays out rope. I try to pull on the sail from the bottom. I'm supposed to prevent it from flying overboard. It comes down about a foot, and stops.

Dad makes a pulling motion, and I try again. Pull … pull … PULL! The sail comes down, the very top of the triangle of fabric about four feet above deck at last. But something doesn't feel right at all. The boat careens wildly, and Dad is yelling.

I make out that he's saying, "Halyard!" and pointing up energetically. A rope is flying around, getting impossibly tangled in the wires and ropes that make this boat go. It winds itself into a mare's nest, and even I can tell that the boat does not like it all. The groaning of the mast drowns out the wind.

Dad leaps, trying to grab the little metal clip attached to the rope. On his second jump, the boat lurches underneath him, and he crashes to the deck, his legs twisting underneath him and his head making contact with one of the metal poles holding up the lifeline.

_The owner had a heart attack … couldn't get back to shore … he didn't survive …_

Screaming, I crawl to him, skidding on the wet deck. I have to unclip and reclip on the lifeline, and I pant in frustration at the delay. He'd unclipped himself to make his leaps, and he's sliding toward the edge every time the boat tilts. Dad looks woozy from hitting his head, but he's hanging onto the mast … just barely. Faintly, I hear Logan yelling from the cockpit, but the words are indistinguishable.

I crouch down beside him and locate his harness. We're near the emergency liferaft, and I decide to clip him onto the ropes lashing it to the deck, hoping it's the right thing to do. _Fuck, this is hard!_ I wish Logan was back here helping, but I feel the boat being tossed by the waves and know we need him steering. _Damn my steering incompetence!_ "Dad! Dad, are you all right?"

"Hit my head. Ankle hurts." There's a smear of blood on his cheek from a cut above his eyebrow.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Did you break it?"

"Don't know. What'd you clip me to?"

"The liferaft. It looks secure, and it's right here."

"Good. Veronica, you've got to get that halyard." He pushes himself up to a seated position, leaning against our liferaft.

"After I get you down below—"

"No, now. We won't make it. That halyard is destabilizing the boat! If it gets caught in the backstay, we could lose the mast. You got to get it and secure it now. … Shit!" I follow his glance, and see that the jib sail is sliding overboard into the water. "Get the jib … fast, Veronica … then you're going to have to climb the mast and grab the halyard."

He definitely hit his head, because I can't climb the mast.

"You can do it. Go." Dad points weakly at the sail. "Now, Veronica."

I go to the jib and begin hauling the sodden fabric out of the water. It's heavy as a bitch, and I'm exhausted by the time I get it all on board.

Dad's yelling. "Tie it to the stanchions if you can't get it through the hatch!"

I'm truthfully not certain how the hatch works. It leads to the inside of the boat, to a little locker accessible from the V-berth. I try a couple things to open it and give up. _Damn men and their infernal devices!_ Remembering the bungee cords in my pocket, I use two of them to attach the drenched sail to two of the metal posts holding up the lifeline. The boat heaves again, and I scuttle back to the mast.

How the fuck does Dad expect me to climb this smooth steel pole? In a motherfucking storm?

°•°•°

Dad's working furiously at the mast, attaching a rope to something made out of canvas. Yanking out a neatly coiled line from a bag attached to the mast, he hands it to me and tells me to take it back to Logan. "Tell him you're going up in the bosun's chair to get the halyard, and then come back. Bring the boat hook with you. Logan'll know what to do. Hurry, Veronica."

The boat feels awful, very unstable and pitching around at the whims of the waves and the wind. By the time I crawl back to the cockpit and pass Logan the rope, I'm completely out of breath, my whole body trembling with fatigue.

"What the hell's going on? I can't see, but the boat's really unbalanced. I can't keep her steady!"

"Boe-sins chair?" I say, panting a little. "Dad's hurt. He says I have to climb the mast to get the haul yard … says we could lose the mast."

I've butchered the words, but he gets the meaning. "Okay, I know what to do." He starts unwinding the rope around one of the largest winches and replacing it with the line I've brought back from the mast. "Go. Be careful. You'll be okay, I won't let you get hurt." Logan concentrates on the rope and I go, but I hear him say, "Love you" as I crawl clumsily back to the mast, the six-foot boat hook tucked under my arm.

Back at the mast, Dad instructs me to get into the canvas device, almost like an safety toddler seat on a swing set. I step into the two leg holes, and Dad shouts to pull the adjustment straps tight. "One hand on the mast as you go up. Then use the boat hook to grab the halyard. You're going to have to untangle it from all the wires and ropes. Once you get the end free, give Logan a thumbs-down so he knows to let you down. Be careful."

"Love you, Daddy."

Dad checks the straps and the attachment point on the seat one more time: it's as secure as it's going to get.

I'm ready, and I give Logan a thumbs-up. He begins cranking the winch.

°•°•°

I can see him struggling to keep the steering as steady as possible with his left hand behind his back while his right arm winches me up the mast. It's slow, and I keep my hand on the mast as I rise four feet, eight feet, twelve feet. Rainwater runs into my eyes, but I don't dare take a hand to wipe my face. Above me, green and red lights at the top of the mast cleave the soggy darkness, and then I'm blinded momentarily when a white light goes on as well.

Then the boat lurches, tilting so far that the low side of the boat is buried in the sea, and I lose my grasp on the slippery mast, swinging out over the water as the boat tilts. I try not to look down and to keep my eyes on Logan, but in my peripheral vision I see a big wave approaching the side of the boat opposite to me. Black water roars, darker than the sky, massive and purposeful—ready to deliver the knockout punch.

_Holy fuck, we're going to broach!_

Logan's not winching, but looking at me dangling and trying desperately to steer to get the boat to flatten. The gorge rises in my throat. And I'm praying. Veronica Mars doesn't pray, but I'm praying.

At any moment, I'm expecting that my weight will be the last straw that overbalances the boat, and we'll soon be upside down. I pat my knife in its sheath in case I have to cut myself free underwater.

_Please … I'm not ready to die._

The wave hits and I sway even further out before he finally he gets the boat to respond. Like a pendulum, I sway back, wildly swinging the boat hook at the twin metal arms that extend twenty inches out from the mast perpendicularly. With a lucky swipe, I snag one of the arms and pull myself back to the safety of the shiny metal pole.

I really hope that it's okay to grab these arms, because right now, I'm totally in love with them. But the rope on the seat hitches up again, and when I look down, Logan is winching. I wish we could talk, that he could reassure me that I'm doing this right.

Another eight feet … ten … and the rope stops pulling me up. I look down to the cockpit and see that he's cleated the line to help him hold it. It's the kind of cleat that pops off fast when necessary, but secure enough with the addition of the winch bearing most of the load and Logan himself holding the end. He's nodding his head at me, and I can see that he's concentrating on trying to keep the boat as steady as he can.

In the gleam of the light on top of the mast, I see the metal shackle of the halyard caught on one of the wires. It's just out of reach, so I use the boat hook. Three tries, four, and finally on the fifth try I snag it. This rope's power to harm us comes from the tangles it's making as the boat weaves and the line flies around the rigging.

I unwrap the halyard from the wire going from the top of the mast to the stern, once, twice around, and then it's free, the boat already responding better. Logan has somehow located a spotlight along with everything else he's doing, and he shines it on the ropes and wires to help me see what I'm doing. I glance toward him, and he's nodding and giving me a thumbs-up and then circling his finger, telling me to keep going.

The boat flounders again, and both the boat hook and the halyard are knocked out of my fingers. I push myself off the mast and swing out, vowing that _this fucking rope will not escape after all this_, and I grab the halyard and swing back to the mast. A few more turns around the long wires that attach the top of the mast to the side of the boat, and the halyard's finally free.

I motion thumbs-down furiously, and Logan starts easing the line. I'm coming down faster than I went up—he can't control the line very well with only one hand.

The line jerks and stops. I look to the cockpit and Logan puts up one finger. He puts the tiller between his legs and works at the winch, unwrapping and rewrapping the rope, and I realize he's got a fucking override, which seems hysterically funny at this point.

The rope begins moving again and I descend the last ten feet very fast, Dad catching me as my legs make contact with the blessed deck.

Dad clips the halyard to the mast and cleats off the line. Still in the bosun's chair, I sit with my head between my legs and try to breathe normally. I've still got to get Dad back to the cockpit.

He exhales loudly. "Great job, Veronica." Dad helps me extricate myself from the canvas chair and stows it into a box bolted to the deck next to the mast. I'd never even noticed the box before. Right now, I can't decide if the bosun's chair was evil or heroic. There's too much on this boat that I don't quite understand, and I vow to ask questions and figure this out so we get where we're going in one piece.

Miraculously, the boat hook I dropped is rolling around on the foredeck, and I flop backward and grab it just as it's going over the side. Where to put it? I tuck it under the bungee cords securing the jib sail and hope it'll hold for now.

"Dad, can you crawl? I don't think I can pull you."

"I'll try."

The boat is maneuvering better, but still flopping from side to side, and even on all fours Dad lets out a loud groan when all his weight lands on his right leg.

Again I debate pulling him. "Wait a second … What about the line you used with the chair? Can we attach it to your harness and slide you along the deck?"

"Not that rope. But we can use a jib sheet. Let's try it. Cut it at the corner and bring it here." Dad's voice is weaker than I'd like, and I realize he'd put forth a supreme effort to get me up the mast. I crawl back to the bow and use my knife to saw at the rope attached to the jib. When I bring it back to him, he says, "Tie a bowline, honey. You remember how, right?"

Passing the end of the rope through the D-ring on his harness, I make a loop, my hands shaking. _Get it right the first time._ I thread the end through and under and through again and pull it taut. It looks right. It _is_ right. "Okay, when we start pulling, try to help as much as you can."

"Yeah." His voice is even fainter. As I scuttle past him toward the cockpit, I see that there is blood smeared all over the sleeve of his foul weather jacket. He bled a lot more than I thought—probably kept wiping it out of his eyes as I was ascending the mast.

I pant to Logan, "I attached the jib sheet to Dad's harness. We've got to slide him. He's getting weak … hurry."

"Take the tiller. Hold it right there—she's steady as long as we keep this heading." Logan had used the winch that usually held the jib sheet to haul me up the mast, so he has to unwind the rope and rewrap it with the new one. As soon as he has three turns on the winch, he slots in the handle and cranks with both hands. He's got to be as tired as I am, but with Dad helping to get his body past all the obstacles, Logan manages to get Dad as far as the cockpit and helps him slide down onto the seat.

Logan asks, "You got those bungee cords?"

"Two of 'em. Two are holding the jib onto the boat."

"Give me those two, and go look for at least two more. There's some in the galley, I think. Hurry."

"Yeah, I know where they are." Passing the tiller to him, I hurry down below and take off two bungees that are helping to keep two cabinet doors from flying open. As soon as I release the bungees, the doors open and cans start falling out. There's seawater on the floor and the cans are rolling around in it.

I look around, gasping, and spot the duct tape. Shoving the cans back in the cabinet as best I can, I duct tape each cabinet door shut. Fuck the varnish, I think. The duct tape looks like it'll hold for a little while, and I hustle back to the cockpit with the two bungee cords.

"Everything okay?" Logan asks.

"Cabinet doors came open when I took off the bungees. I taped 'em shut."

"Good thinking." He's already attached the first two bungee cords to the tiller, one to each side of the boat, and he adds the ones that I brought.

And miraculously the boat steadies, rocking slightly like a toy boat in a bathtub—our haven in the middle of a hurricane.

°•°•°

With the steering secured and Logan able to help, we get Dad down the companionway and set up on the seats in the salon. It's not calm below, but the boat is sitting pretty flat in the water, and the howling of the wind and the moaning of the boat are dramatically reduced.

I help Dad out of his foul-weather gear and examine his swollen ankle while Logan puts pressure on the cut on his forehead. "Try to move it," I tell Dad. He winces, but he's able to move his foot in all directions, and I'm pretty sure it's just a bad sprain.

_Just_ a bad sprain—a complete nightmare on board an unsteady boat. He's not going to be able to go on the foredeck for the rest of the voyage. My job just got a lot harder. "I think it's a sprain," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "How's his head? Will he need stitches?"

Logan removes the gauze and scrutinizes the wound. "No stitches. Butterflies, maybe. But I think he conked his head pretty hard."

"It would take a lot more than that to put Keith Mars out of commission," Dad says, his voice weaker than his words.

"Geez, Dad, all this so you could get out of your watch. Lame." I turn to Logan. "We've got to ice this ankle. Maybe his forehead too."

"Seawater in a bucket," Logan suggests. "With a couple frozen dinners to cool down the water. Frozen peas for his head."

"Yeah, that'll work."

He grabs a bucket from a locker and half-fills it with seawater from the rinsing hose in the galley kitchen. I dig into the icebox and pull out the beef stew I was planning to serve for tomorrow's dinner, along with one frozen bottle of water. Logan brings the bucket to Dad, and I plop in the frozen items. When Dad puts his foot in, he winces but says it's not too cold. I give him some painkillers and bandage his forehead while Logan goes up to check on the boat.

Pulling off my foul weather jacket, I feel something heavy and find one of the baking potatoes, still wrapped in foil, in the pocket. The other must have flown into the sea at some point. I wolf it down, suddenly starving.

Logan comes back down after a few minutes. "It's all good up there. I got the jib down the hatch and rescued the boat hook. A little adjustment with the bridle holding the chute, and all of a sudden she settled down a lot. The boat's only losing a little ground, and we can get some rest. It's probably going to blow hard until morning."

He pulls off his sailing gloves with a grimace; his right palm is a reddened mass of torn skin from supporting my weight when he got the override. I wince, and make him sit down so I can put antibiotic cream and a bandage on it.

While I work on his hand, he tells me, "You did good, Veronica. We wouldn't have made it without you. Your dad and I are too heavy—we wouldn't have been able to winch one of us up the mast in this wind. It was a close call, but we're all right."

I smooth adhesive tape over the dressing, thinking how much it must have hurt when he was holding up all of my weight. "Good thing I'm so scrawny. Hey, Logan. You know how I've been getting really flustered with the names and the wind and everything?"

He nods.

"Teach me everything you know. Don't baby me. I can do this."

"Yeah, you can."

°•°•°

Eight hours later the storm finally blows itself out. We reemerge on deck with the rising sun and favorable winds.

Logan and I clean up the boat, mopping up seawater in the galley and salon and pumping out the bilge. To get some sleep, we'd duct-taped a disposable diaper over the leaking porthole in our cabin, and now Logan scrapes out the silicone sealant around the fixture and reseals it, drying it with a hairdryer (using precious battery power).

Dad's hobbling around, declaring that he'll take over the galley duties and I better start learning how to fix the engine. We rig up a walking cast for him made out of rubber from a dock fender, cotton batting from one of the settee's cushions and, of course, duct tape.

Logan lubricates the jib roller furling mechanism and it seems to be working all right, for now. We get the jib up again and pray that the furler will make it all the way to the Caribbean. But Logan assures me that we could always hoist a traditional jib sail and get rid of the furler altogether. _On a sailboat, we expect things to go wrong. And we make sure that we're able to deal with those things._ Somehow that doesn't scare me anymore.

At noon, we discuss turning south toward the Virgin Islands and sailing the rhumb line. The wind's faltering, and if we're going to be motoring anyways, Logan says we ought to try to get south and pick up the trade winds. We agree, and Logan programs a new course into our navigation software.

The plan right now is to sail into St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. We can easily clear customs there, since we can truthfully claim we sailed from one U.S. port to another without any stops. No visa required. They won't be scrutinizing our passports, and just to be sure, we soak them in a little seawater to enhance their battered appearance.

We'll rest for a few days in St. Thomas, refuel, restock, and repair, and then head for the Dominican Republic, where we can secure a 30-day renewable visa without much hassle.

After a few hours of motoring, the winds pick up and we begin sailing again. We have an incredibly clear night after a gorgeous sunset, with the Milky Way startlingly visible in the moonless sky—no civilization and no light to diminish their impact.

The next day, we see a whale and a pod of dolphins swims with us for an hour. We're making good time, averaging 105 miles per day, even with all that time spent hove-to.

And then we see another sailboat, about a half mile away. Logan says the standard procedure would be to hail them, but if we don't, or don't respond to their hail, they'll just assume something's wrong with our radio. After all, everything breaks on a boat—it's just a matter of time.

Or maybe they'll think we're just assholes.

The next day, I notice that one of the two bolts on the wire leading from the stern to the mast is missing its nut. Logan replaces the missing nut using an adhesive he calls 'Loctite' and says that the backstay was under a lot of stress when the halyard was fouled in the rigging, and that probably loosened the nut. We were damn lucky that nut didn't come off when we were in the storm.

As he works, I query him, until I understand every term and have a general sense of how the mast is held up by a system of counterbalanced wires leading to the stern, the bow, and the two sides. As a consequence, I now have a greater understanding of the stresses upon the boat and a sense of awe that _Panacea_ withstood all that pressure.

Days pass. Little things go wrong all the time. Lines get tangled. A jib sheet frays and has to be replaced. The oil pressure gauge on the engine shows a low reading, and Dad finds and repairs a small leak in the system.

A couple of aluminum cans that got soaked by seawater in the storm start to leak in the cabinets, leading to a nasty stench in the galley. So Dad and I spend hours scrubbing the cabinets with seawater.

There's always something that needs to be repaired, and I start to enjoy coming up with creative solutions. It feels good to be so self-reliant.

It takes about five days before the inside of the boat has completely dried out from water that leaked in during the storm. We sleep rolled up in space blankets that are impermeable to the constant dampness, and it truthfully isn't all that bad. When it's sunny and calm, we drag the cushions and mattress up to the deck and dry them out some more; our wet clothes hang along the lifelines.

After six days, what's left of our frozen meals have melted, and we have a banquet of everything from the icebox. After that, it's canned meals and spaghetti, with cabbage salads and baked potatoes. Breakfast is easy: even unrefrigerated, our three dozen eggs easily last over a week by flipping them every other day and we have an eggless pancake mix from a health food store for after that. Oatmeal hits the spot when it's stormy or blowing hard. So some days we have breakfast twice. It's not nearly as unhealthy as the old Mars dessert-for-dinner night.

We hit two more storms. They're not as intense, and we're able to keep on a comfortable point of sail throughout. _Panacea_ doesn't take on much water in either storm, to our relief.

There's a lot of time to talk and read. Bathing with seawater from a bucket gets old fast. During the third storm, I go out in the cockpit in my bikini and soap up, letting the rain wash me as clean as I get during the whole voyage. Logan, at the helm, teases me about being a prude, and I stick my tongue out and strip off my bathing suit, giving him a real show.

There's something about the emptiness and vastness of the ocean that makes the three of us even more close than we'd been. We're relying on each other, twenty-four hours a day. Trust and communication get easier, until we seem to be able to sense what the others need without words. Arguments get resolved quickly—we speak our minds but listen to what the others are saying.

And gradually I learn how to sail. All the sailing terminology that Dad and Logan use so casually becomes second-nature for me as well. I have confidence that I know what every rope is used for. Studying the sailing texts, I push myself to experiment with all the fine control lines to understand how sail shape functions. There's something very cool about saying, "Ease the vang," and knowing exactly what that means and why it should be done.

On a calm day with very light winds almost directly behind us, we launch the spinnaker, a billowy parachute-like sail that attaches to the front of the boat with a pole. The spinnaker is beautiful, purple, teal and yellow lightweight fabric, and it seems to pull the boat through the ocean even though the surface of the water looks like undulating glass from the lack of wind.

I'm constantly awed by capricious loveliness of the journey. "You need clouds for a beautiful sunset," they say, and somehow the constant threat of the ocean's power makes the beauty all the more sweet. We savor every moment of favorable weather, and deal with the bad when it comes.

Every day, Logan and I sit down with updated figures for our fuel, water, and position, and calculate whether we should try to gain a little speed by motoring when the wind dies, or ration water and ride out the calms. Logan had insisted that we store an impressive cushion of both spare fuel and water, enough for twenty-five days total with average usage.

But by day twelve, we're two hundred and fifty miles out from St. Thomas with plenty of fuel and water to spare. I order a celebration when we pass the point where we can motor the rest of way to St. Thomas. Dad makes a pitiful cake—really kind of a pan muffin with chocolate chips—and we sing 'What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor,' completely out of key.

There's enough water left the night before we arrive in St. Thomas for each of us to take a short shower with fresh water. I have blonde roots showing in my hair under my baseball cap. Logan's hair is the blondest I've ever seen it, and he announces his intention to grow a ponytail. Dad jokes that he's going to grow a ponytail too, or maybe get dreadlocks. We're all ridiculously tanned, and I feel stronger than I've ever been.

On our fifteenth day at sea, we arrive in St. Thomas and are cleared into customs without a hitch.


	29. Chapter 29: Paradise

**TITLE:** Paradise (29/32)  
**AUTHOR:** vanessagalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 8,284  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

Sorry about the delay in updating. However: good news, the entire fic is written and will be posted before the movie destroys my canon, with a few days between each chapter. You can find a complete summary of the whole fic on my dreamwidth (look on my profile here for the link).

I attempted to include some slang Spanish (of a particular country) in this chapter without an actual Spanish speaker to look it over. Your gentle PMs regarding any errors would be welcomed.

* * *

_Previously on Precipitation: En route to the Caribbean in a 36' sailboat, Veronica, Keith and Logan run into a monster storm. They try to heave-to and set a parachute to act as a sea anchor, but one of the sails is stuck, and when they free it, the lines get entangled in the rigging of the boat and Keith gets hurt. Veronica has to go up the mast to free the lines even as the boat threatens to flip over in the heavy seas. They finally get the boat under control and Veronica vows to learn everything about sailing as they head for St. Thomas. On the fifteenth day at sea, they arrive in St. Thomas and clear customs without a hitch.  
_

* * *

Chapter 29: Paradise

Five months later (late November 2007): The Dominican Republic (the DR)

It's Friday afternoon and Logan's waiting in the rubber dinghy at the Puerta Plata public dock at 6:00 sharp. I toss the bag containing my 'hospitality' uniform and high heels into the boat, and he revs the motor and heads toward _Panacea_, moored about three hundred feet out in the bay.

It's still a jolt when I see him with blue contact lenses, a blond beard and mustache, and a four-inch long blond ponytail hanging down his back. When he grew his hair out, his natural waves turned to curls. Between the sun and the salt water, and occasionally a little bleach out of the box, his hair is almost platinum blond in marked contrast to his deep tan. He's still a lady-killer, but he doesn't look like the boy from The Tinseltown Diaries any more.

My hair is dark brown and short—easy to style in the humidity here and quick to dye—and my contacts are also brown. Dad shaved his head again and grew a beard as well. It actually looks good on him, the beard surprisingly having grown in salt-and-pepper colored. Some of those worry lines he'd accumulated when we were running have smoothed out again, and his smile is broader than I've seen it since Mom left. We all look good, because we feel safe here.

We'd started out in Luperón on the north coast of the Dominican Republic, intending to wait out the hurricane season in the protected bay, but the crime and the polluted water were awful, and no jobs were to be found. Then one night Dad struck up a conversation with a man in the marina bar, who turned out to be the hired captain of the luxurious 75-foot yacht anchored in the bay.

The boat was owned by Richard Stellner, a corporate executive who lives in a large mansion on the bay in Puerta Plata, the next big town to the west. In addition to a full hired crew on his sailing vessel, Stellner has an extensive private security force, as do many of the expatriates living here in DR, and the captain offered to get Dad a job working security. Introductions were made, and Dad was hired.

So we moved to Puerta Plata and Logan and I began looking for jobs. We'd had to sail back to Luperón three times, to wait out Hurricane Dean, Felix and worst of all Noel. The last hurricane actually hit the southern coast of Haiti while we were cowering up on the northern shore of the Dominican Republic—the two nations share the island of Hispaniola. Despite Noel's power, _Panacea_ made it through with a minimum of damage.

Really, they should go back to all female names for hurricanes. The men just sucked this year.

It wasn't easy to locate jobs for me or Logan. But each day we networked, talking to the Dominicans who sold local produce to the cruisers. Apparently, apartments and jobs here are mostly to be had by word of mouth.

In the beginning, I tutored English, which helped me to work on my Spanish and to rid myself of my Tijuana accent. I practiced dropping my s's and d's and mashing words together like the locals.

Once we moved the boat permanently to Puerta Plata, a cousin of a friend of one of our acquaintances heard that there was a job for someone who spoke excellent English and had good people skills. The position was at the hospitality desk at one of the largest casinos, and I jumped at the job. It was a foot in the door, and I was betting there were plenty of opportunities for advancement at the resort.

And Logan flirted his way into a job teaching sailing and surfing at one of the hotels. We heard a rumor that the previous teacher had flaked out and disappeared without giving notice. So Logan provided faked paperwork showing that he had ASA sailing certification, NSSIA surfing credentials and all the necessary Red Cross courses. That was more 'experience' than the previous teacher had, and, combined with Logan's smoldering sidelong glances at the plump hotel manager, it sealed the deal.

I am forbidden from visiting him at work, to maintain the fiction that he is pining away for the very-married manager. So help me god, her name is Tina, and she's got that same annoyingly perky attitude that Tina at the Neptune Grand had.

And we sail. Almost every evening, Logan and I take _Panacea_ for a sail before tying up again on our mooring ball. On the weekends Dad often joins us, or sometimes we pick up some extra cash running charters for people seeking fishing trips or a honeymoon sunset cruise. During the week Dad usually stays in a little studio apartment near the estate where he works, but sometimes we switch off, and Logan and I see what it's like to sleep (or not sleep) in a bed that doesn't rock with the waves and take a long shower that's not limited by the capacity of our water tanks.

We're all working on our permanent residency paperwork. The Dominican Republic allows dual citizenship with the United States: no messy renunciation required, and more and more people are retiring here so we really don't stick out that much. It'll be three years if everything goes all right, and then, as residents, Logan and I will be eligible for reduced tuition at the state universities.

Sometimes, I allow myself to imagine that I'll be a lawyer or a journalist. Somehow.

The Dominican Republic's beaches are beautiful, the interior of the island is wild and gorgeous, with mountains and lakes, and the weather is awesome. But it's really not paradise.

The same corruption that allowed us to skate in under the radar bites us in the ass more than once, and sometimes we have to pay double for our monthly mooring permit. _Panacea_'s been broken into twice, and our dinghy was stolen. The thieves foolishly tried to sell it to one of our neighboring cruisers, and Dad brandished his weapon to make them relinquish our little rubber boat. We've upgraded the sailboat's security, and all our cash, weapons and crucial items like paper stock for false documents have been hidden in cleverly concealed woodworking.

Dad's job is risky, about as dangerous as the Neptune Sheriff's job was. His boss is a target because of his wealth, and Dad is usually assigned to provide personal protection. As the CEO of 3M Dominicana, Stellner has a high risk of being kidnapped.

I'm hassled on the street, and I can never wear jewelry or headphones. Logan got in a little fight with one of the locals who didn't appreciate a gringo taking a job away from a Dominican. Most of the American expatriates buy private medical insurance so they can go to adequate hospitals, rather than the third world Dominican ones. We can't quite afford that yet, so we have to stay healthy.

There are electrical blackouts for several hours three or four times a week; the wealthy have generators and the poor just deal with it. The worst problem in the DR is the sex tourism industry, men from the United States who come to this country to prey on desperate young men and women from impoverished villages.

Dad has made a friend on the police force, Miguel, just in case we should ever need somebody official. Miguel and his wife Soledad have come out on the boat a few times, and we treat them to grilled sea bass or curried chicken and the best Dominican beer, Ambar Cerveza Oscura. Soledad clucks her tongue at the crazy gimbaled stove and crosses herself when I show her how to use the head.

Every week or so, we have a discussion about whether we should stay or move on. _Panacea_ is always stocked with non-perishables, enough to get us to another island if we have to run. Logan keeps the boat in top condition, just in case, and he's always volunteering to help other cruisers with their repairs in order to learn more.

So far, we haven't attracted any official attention here, and we're making a go of it. We're not saving much money, but we're supporting ourselves. Our salaries are small, but the cost of living is low. If we can get residency papers, we could have pretty close to a normal life. But the crime here is wearing us down, and it might be safer just to keep moving from island to island throughout the Caribbean, working crappy jobs and just lying low.

Now that we're here, I can see why Logan thought this would work. There are so many cruising sailboats, here one day, gone the next—the locals hardly pay attention so long as the proper bribes are paid to the dockmaster. The cruisers barter among themselves for services, and no one seems too excited when we use cash instead of credit cards. Friendships are made and then forgotten when the next yacht sails in. People don't use last names: it's 'Bob from _Aquaholic_' or 'Mary from _Lazy Daze_.'

The last time we talked about it, Logan reminded us that high season was starting. He'll be making more in tips from all the snowbirds learning to surf and sail; I can do more tutoring with all the cruising families here to escape the Northern winter. Logan feels we should try to build up our nest egg and buy some solar panels and a watermaker for the boat. With those additions, we could go offshore for longer periods: hide in the ocean if need be, even sail to Tahiti if we want.

And as far as Neptune goes, we've discreetly followed the situation there via Internet cafés in the capitol, Santo Domingo. Our home city is still in turmoil, with gangs battling for drug turf and a murder rate that seems to be rising daily. The big news in August was the disappearance of Gorya Sorokin, reported missing by his fraternity brothers. Logan said, "No body. He's not dead, he's gone to ground," and I privately agreed.

In October, we hear about the massive wildfires raging in San Diego and Balboa counties, and we scrutinize the news for the names of our friends. One of Dad's oldest friends, a firefighter in the Neptune Department, is injured battling the blaze. And Vinnie did his usual inadequate job as Sheriff; the Register blasted him for delaying the call to evacuate until after many residents had already fled their homes.

I also keep tabs on Anatoly Ponomarev's murder. While the case apparently remains open, no progress is reported—certainly nobody official seems to have connected the Mars family's shootout in Arkansas with a mobster killing in Chicago a couple of days later.

In early November, with Logan and Dad's blessing, I took a chance and logged onto the Hearst website. Wallace was featured in an article about the basketball team, and Mac was listed as having won a computer science competition. In the Neptune Register, Cliff was mentioned as the attorney-of-record for several Fitzpatrick defendants, and although his chosen work nauseates me, we assume Liam's cronies find Cliff useful enough that they'll protect him.

These circumspect Internet searches are as close as I come to detecting these days. I don't do favors for friends. When I see something intriguing at the casino, I take a deep breath and focus on my boring job. With all the illicit activity here, I could be investigating night and day, but I've trained myself to ignore the petty criminals.

I read a lot. I'm learning to cook. Logan's going to teach me how to windsurf. Maybe I'll take up knitting.

It wasn't easy to change the way I thought: for months I wore a rubber band on my wrist and snapped it every time I wondered what a Planet Zowie search or discreet surveillance would reveal about a potential miscreant. Sometimes when I found myself obsessing about what we'd lost, I'd dive into the ocean and swim until I was exhausted. They were dumb psychological tricks that only worked a little, but as I started to experience a happiness that has eluded me since before Lilly Kane died, the new thinking habits started to become my norm.

Mostly.

It helps that the nightmares have mostly stopped. Not waking up disoriented and terrified is a major improvement. Dad and I talked about Chicago until I finally started to believe that I'd had no choice but to shoot, and it's starting to sink in that we really have managed to escape Gory. And I'm feeling better about some of my decisions I made over the last year. There are regrets, but I'm determined to move ahead and make a decent life for myself.

But tonight we're just going to have a sunset cruise followed by a blissful weekend of wind and sun, and we won't think at all about the turmoil we've left behind in the United States. Steady breezes push _Panacea_ along, the sea air exhilarating after breathing in the stale air-conditioned air of the casino. The ocean is blissfully quiet compared to the incessant dinging of slot machines that makes my head ache. I take the helm and Logan pulls up the anchor as we leave the mooring.

It's hard to believe I thought sailing was difficult at first. I've become attuned to the rhythms of sailing, with each point of sail having a distinct sound of the water hitting the hull, the boat being tilted to a specific degree, and _Panacea_ having a particular thrumming sound from all the forces acting upon her. Walking confidently along the deck, I tweak a line here or there, confident that it's the right thing to do. I have an awareness of weather and my surroundings that feels natural and instinctive, and I transition from deck to shore the way most people go from stairs to floors.

We sail upwind, tacking lazily when we feel like it, and we eat pasta with shrimp and vegetables (a new recipe), and ice cream for dessert. Then we turn and have an easy sail downwind back to our mooring as the moon rises in the sky. The wind is free, and we can have this pleasure anytime we want, so we do.

We're sitting in the cockpit, and I'm leaning against Logan, my back to his front with his arms encircling me. The boat rocks gently at our mooring. It's quiet, except for the very faint throbbing bass of the hotel's disco on shore. I ask, "What would we be doing if we were in Neptune?"

"You'd be studying for your Criminology midterm. I'd be at a frat party with Dick."

"What would you have majored in if we'd … if we'd stayed?"

He shrugs. "I guess Business." Logan plays with my hair. "What brought that up?"

"There were some college kids in the casino today."

"I like our life here better."

"I do too." Mostly it's not a lie, but the college students did give me a pang of regret this morning. "How were your sailing students today?"

He scoffs. "They were drunk, or hung over, at 10 a.m. One of them just missed puking on me."

"Classy."

"All-inclusive apparently means beer at breakfast. Then one girl kept pulling the tiller when I told her to push, and she almost knocked me on the head with the boom. She was giggling like a lunatic and smelled like a piña colada."

I elbow him. "Ah, the irony … I remember a few times when _you_ were drunk in homeroom. Must be rough, all that surfing and sailing and pretty girls in bikinis."

"Except that I have to be nice to _everyone_. That's not exactly how I was raised, you know. It still feels weird to be the hired help."

"It's good for you."

"Yeah, it is." He hugs me a little tighter. "I'm really tired at the end of the day from being out in the sun and going in and out of the water chasing after little kids, but I like it. And I like that I'm pulling my weight for the family."

I don't know when we started calling ourselves a family. The "three of us" just somehow turned into "our family" over the last few months. It helps that our fake passports declare that Logan is Keith's son and I'm Logan's wife. It's almost like the cover story has become real. Vicky and Randy Donahue, just your typical young couple from Durham, North Carolina, with the husband's father Cal tagging along. Not three desperate felons from sunny California.

"C'mon, 'Randy.' Let's do the dishes and get to bed."

"Foredeck?"

"Absolutely."

The dishes done, we drag cushions and pillows up to the bow. A folded blanket lies beside us, just in case, but there's no one here to see us. This mooring is the farthest out from the dock, and when it became available we snatched it up and have claimed it ever since. So when we pull off our clothes, there are only stars to see it.

I'll never get tired of watching the night sky from the boat. The stars aren't as clear as they were in the middle of the Atlantic, but still it's a dazzling show almost every night. In the sheltered bay of Puerta Plata, the waves rock us gently, and the wind plays music on the wires that stabilize beautiful _Panacea's_ mast. It smells fresh here on deck, ocean plus a hint of the subtle essences of diesel, wood, and wet cotton sails that make up our humble boat_. Our home._

His hand finds mine, and we play our nightly game of identifying the constellations. The zodiac is to the north, and tonight we find Canopus south of Orion. Vega and Capella blink at us and Betelgeuse is just barely visible. It feels like we could stretch our arms and pluck the stars from the skies.

We have sanctuary here, an uninterrupted peace that's eluded us for so many years. It's not exactly that we _forget_, but it's okay here. Better than okay.

So then he rolls over and kisses me, confident that I'll accept his lips and tongue. No words now, just tasting each other and gentle stroking of familiar skin. I pull the tie from his ponytail and play with his curls; his soft beard caresses my cheek. He lavishes little kisses of delight along the curve of my jaw and runs his fingers through the shorn locks of my hair. We are comfortable in our facades, because they just _are_.

This is making love. There is passion, but mainly there is love. This is what they write songs about and fight wars over. The future is irrelevant, because we are now.

Moist and tender lips tingle on my breast; my hands seek his pleasure. We are filled with the joy of knowing exactly what the other prefers and trying to make it even more than it ever was. Our breath stills as we wait for the other, then the other surges ahead and the chase begins anew. Hard and soft meet and join; fingers are clasped as we hurtle to the precipice of orgasm.

And as the boat sways, we rock together as one under a starlit sky.

°•°•°

A motor boat revs in the distance, the sounds getting closer.

I fumble next to me and Logan is right here sleeping—it's not him. The sun is up, but it's still early. Leaning on my elbow, I look at the water and see a small dinghy headed toward us, two people on board, and I poke Logan. "Hey. Wake up. Someone's coming." We scramble to get some clothes on as the boat nears.

Dad's gotten a ride from one of the other cruising families, and we help him on board. He waves his thanks at the boat's driver and cocks his head at us. "You guys don't answer the radio anymore?"

Logan says, "I took it apart. You know it's been really staticky—Ben Turner over on _Second Wind _showed me how to fix it. Haven't quite got it back together yet." We'd picked up three prepaid cell phones once we arrived in the DR, but they rarely work offshore.

I ask, "What's going on?"

"This." He hands us a newspaper, a week-old copy of the classifieds from the Sunday New York Times. "Stellner gets the Times and the Miami Herald flown to him from Miami every day. It was on top of the recycling and I just happened to see it." Dad stabs a finger at a large boxed ad, prominently displayed in the center of page one above the fold.

_»Seeking information regarding the whereabouts of Adrian Monk, CEO of Gezeichnetes Kapital, Gmbh. All responses kept confidential. Important to make contact. Reply to cmccesq90909 AT lavabit DOT com.«_

"Pricey ad," I remark. "Who's Adrian Monk?"

Dad explains, "Adrian Monk is the alias I used when I was pretending to be a building inspector in the Batando case. Cliff was there when I was questioned about it. Only three other people in the world know about that: the super of the building, Don Lamb, and Detective Sanchez of the LAPD. Batando and Lamb are dead, and I'm betting Sanchez never thought about Adrian Monk again. And I really don't see the super placing an ad in the New York Times."

"_'Ausgezeichnet'_ was the expression I used when I was pretending to be Inge after we fled Neptune," I say.

Dad nods. "It's definitely Cliff, trying to reach out. He could have been running this ad for weeks."

I stare at the ad, willing it to give up more information. "Do you think he's trying to warn us about something?"

"I don't know," Dad says.

"Can we trust him?" Logan asks.

"It's Cliff," I say. "Other than Wallace and Mac, he's the person I trust the most in Neptune."

Logan says, "Just forget about it. We're safe here. Why would you take the chance that someone is pretending to be Cliff?"

"How would they know these things?" Dad says. "Maybe we're _not_ safe. What if Cliff's trying to let us know that the FBI picked up our trail in North Carolina? Maybe somebody figured out that we bought a boat, and they're narrowing in on us as we speak. I say we should try to make contact."

"We could use the Tor protocols again—" I muse.

"Not fucking good enough," Logan says. "I think someone's using this to try to smoke us out. I wouldn't put it past that fucker Gory to kidnap and torture Cliff until he spilled the beans. And what about the Fitzpatricks? Cliff's been raking it in as Neptune's premiere mob attorney, you know. Maybe Liam's offering Cliff a generous retirement incentive."

"Cliff wouldn't do that," I protest. The thought had crossed my mind as well, but I feel certain that Cliff would've come up with a way to warn us.

We argue for two hours. In the end, we vote, and it's two to one, Dad and I voting to send an email and Logan saying we're out of our fucking minds. Dad and I discuss the possibilities—since we've been here, Dad's been studying computers at night, hoping to make himself more valuable in the job market, and he has a few ideas for more encryption layers to obscure our electronic location.

Logan ignores us and begins to reassemble the radio, testing it by calling another boat. Then he starts working his way around the boat, examining every rope and bolt for wear. He sees me following him with my eyes. "I'm getting ready to run, since you guys seem determined to do this. But remember, if it's a trap, they'll know we're in a boat now."

"Not necessarily," Dad replies.

"Will you guys at least give me time to buy the solar panels and the watermaker I've been asking for? I have to go to Santo Domingo to get them."

Dad and I exchange glances. These purchases will seriously deplete our savings. "Can't hurt," I mumble finally.

"I'll go on Monday. I think we should really go over the boat one hundred percent, top off the tanks and lay in some extra supplies. Get everything stowed for offshore. Just in case."

°•°•°

On Monday, Logan calls in sick and goes to Santo Domingo to buy the new gear for the boat. It's very expensive, about $6,500 total, but we see his point. We could easily stay in the ocean for weeks with these items, and it's comforting to have this as an option.

I always worry when one of us goes to the capitol. Puerta Plata is bad enough, but Santo Domingo is downright dangerous. Muggings are common, especially by locals on mopeds or bikes who swoop in and grab pocketbooks, and they target Americans. Even taxicab drivers have been known to mug their passengers. Logan will dress like a surfing bum, not a wealthy tourist, and most of the cash will be sewn into his clothes, with a 'normal' amount in his wallet ready to hand over to a mugger. Five thousand Dominican pesos, about $118, is a fair price for your life here. Logan was mugged once, only losing about $50 and some of his pride, and he shrugged it off as just part of the daily grind in the DR.

Still, I worry.

So when I get a call at 2:00 while working at the hospitality desk, I'm expecting the worst. "Casino Paradiso de Puerta Plata, this is Vicky Donahue. How may I help you?"

"Soy Rafael Ortiz, el jefe de securidad de Señor Stellner. Su suegro fue heri'o."

Ortiz's Dominican accent is thick, and I have to puzzle out the words. _Heri'o, I think that's herido_—wound, injury. _Suegro_—cousin. No. Father-in-law. Shit. Dad's been hurt! "¿Señor Donahue? ¿Dónde está?"

"Sí, Señor Donahue, está en la casa Stellner, con el médico." At Stellner's, with the doctor.

I clutch the phone. "¿Es serio?" _Fuck, that's not right! How do you say serious? Gravely, that's it._ "¿Es … es gravemente herido?"

"No gravemente. Tató." With an effort, he adds, "Going to be okay. You come?"

"Sí, voy inmediatemente."

"No te preocupe'. A po' ta' bien." _Don't worry. It's okay._

At Stellner's, Rafael Ortiz meets me at the door, and I'm led through the house. I've never seen the inside of Stellner's house before. He would be a wealthy man in the United States, and here in the DR he's a king. We pass room after room of tastefully decorated living areas and offices, a magnificent kitchen, and even a large swimming pool in an enclosed courtyard, with an adjacent gym and sauna. Fresh flowers are everywhere, inside and out, and there is an impressive number of employees working to keep everything beautiful.

Finally we find Dad resting on a bed in one of the luxurious guest rooms on the second floor. Cool breezes waft through the room from louvered doors leading to two balconies. A doctor and a nurse are fussing over Dad, and a maid waits patiently with a tray of food.

Dad truthfully looks more embarrassed than injured, but I throw my arms around him. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I took down a man with a gun who broke into Stellner's office. He got off a couple rounds, but they all missed. I just wrenched my shoulder a bit. A couple of aspirin and I'll be fine."

I sigh, a mixture of relief and worry. "You got lucky. I hate this job."

He leans closer and whispers, "Yeah, well, I remember wanting to get a giant hamster ball for you. Now you know how it feels."

"Don't joke."

A man in an elegant tropical-weight suit walks into the room, a concerned look on his face. He is trailed by a slender American woman in corporate attire who wields a notebook, pen and cell phone. Dad says, "Mr. Stellner, this is my daughter-in-law Vicky."

Stellner has intelligent eyes and a pleasant demeanor. "Vicky, nice to meet you. Mr. Donahue, I'm very grateful to you. I hope you're all right."

Dad puts up a hand. "Please. Call me Cal. I'm fine."

Stellner turns to the doctor. "Mr. Donahue is all right?" When the doctor nods, Stellner says to Dad, "Cal, I'd like to find some way to express my gratitude."

Dad scoffs. "It was nothing—just doing my job."

"This was no ordinary thief. Rafael has told me that the intruder was able to bypass all our security and was about to open my safe. I feel very lucky that my skipper met you in Luperón." Stellner looks at us quizzically. "You're taking all this in stride."

"I told you when we met that I'd done a little security in the past. Worked as a bouncer, night watchman, a few jobs like that."

"Rafael said you disarmed the man very professionally, even while you were injured."

"Just got lucky," Dad says evasively.

"I'm the one who's lucky. Cal, if you need anything at all, please let me know. Take the rest of the week off—I insist. And then we'll discuss giving you a little more responsibility." He turns the woman accompanying him. "Melissa, take care of this, please. I'd like the doctor to go by Mr. Donahue's house tomorrow to make sure he's all right. Have the cook prepare some meals and have them delivered as well." Turning to me again, he says, "Nice meeting you, Vicky." Stellner glides out of the room, his attention already focused on the next issue of the day.

"I think he likes you," I whisper. "It's good to have friends in high places."

"Except I've just attracted a little bit too much attention," Dad replies. "Logan's not back yet, right?"

Logan had left at 6am. The bus takes four hours, it'll take at least a couple hours to complete his shopping, and then a four-hour bus ride back. "4:00 at the earliest, I'd think." I check my watch. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Get back to the casino. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

°•°•°

By Friday evening, Logan has the new solar panels and the watermaker installed on _Panacea_. All week, he gets up at first light and works until he reports to his teaching job at 9 am. Then after work, Logan fusses with wires and manuals until he's exhausted. Dad comes over and helps as much as he can on Thursday and Friday, but the installation work is in very tight spaces and Dad's shoulder is still bothering him too much to really be of assistance. I'm doing some extra shopping and spending my free time organizing the boat. We've accumulated a few things since we arrived in early July, and I donate some items to other cruisers and the rest I stow.

I'm not working on Saturday, as usual, and now it's my turn to go to Santo Domingo. The air-conditioning on the bus is ridiculously cold, and I shiver for four hours. At an Internet café, I order a Coke and find a discreet corner table. I log on, using Tor and a temporary email address.

»_This is Adrian Monk. Who is this? Give me some guarantee that this communication is safe. This email address will be available for one hour only.«_

I imagine Cliff hearing an alert tone on his computer and rushing to answer. While I wait, I check in with the Neptune Register. The same old stories confront me: gang murders on a daily basis, petty thefts skyrocketing, and Vinnie Van Lowe denying that there's a problem in Neptune. There are a lot of real estate ads for high-end homes, and no news on the disappearance of Gorya Sorokin.

A half-hour later, I get a reply. I scan the email headers before opening the email. The return path looks as sophisticated as the ones from our Tor encrypted ones. Taking a deep breath, I click on the email.

_»Your friend CM set this up and assures me it's completely safe. Your location is secure, do not worry._

_Situation dire in Neptune with VVL. Property values plummeting. JK has been in touch with me, is working on a pardon for you. If K will agree to return as sheriff. And tell your companion he still owes me for a four-handed Thai massage.«_

_'A pardon ... agree to return as sheriff.'_ I read the phrases over and over again, not really believing my eyes. The whole world has shifted, and there are _possibilities._

Suddenly I feel nauseated and I have to close my eyes and grab onto the table in front of me to avoid keeling over. I try to perform the breathing exercises Dad makes me do when we discuss my Chicago 'adventures.' In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. Focus on the counts.

_One, two, three, four. A pardon. One, two, three, four. Sheriff. One, two, three, four. Location secure. One, two, three, four. We can go back. Back ... Backup, Wallace, Mac, college, a career, a life._

I open the eyes and the café isn't spinning any more. Sipping my Coke, I read the email ten times. I try to puzzle out the meanings of the oblique message.

CM must be Mac. Situation dire—I'm not surprised. JK—Jake Kane—is working on a pardon? No way. And what about Arkansas, not to mention Chicago? I know Jake's got some pull with Governor Schwarzeneggar, but what can he do for us in El Dorado?

Four-handed Thai massage? That throws me. Wracking my brains, I try to assess if it's code for 'don't believe what I'm saying.' Does four-handed mean two-faced? It's too tenuous, and I decide that 'Thai massage' can't be anything nefarious. I make a mental note to ask Logan.

I feel _rusty._ Unused brain cells are creaking with the effort of discerning the truth of these words. Veronica Mars still exists, somewhere deep within Vicky Donahue, but those synapses are stubbornly slow with disuse. What's the right thing to do here? Minutes pass as I parse every syllable for hidden messages.

Finally, I give up and click 'reply.'

_»Adrian Monk will be in touch.«_

I'd argued that the three of us should go to Santo Domingo together to send the email so we could discuss our response, but Logan had wanted to keep working on the boat. Dad and he are doing a final oil change and topping off all the fluids that keep our diesel engine running smoothly. This whole week, we've all felt unsettled and nervous, and Dad's run-in with the burglar didn't help.

Leaving the café, I find a bench in one of Santo Domingo's many parks and call them on my cell. They're on the boat together, tied up at the dock so they can get cell reception, and they put their phone on speaker.

In hushed tones, I tell them what the email had contained. Logan huffs a laugh at 'four-handed Thai massage.'

"What?" I ask.

"It's Cliff, all right," Logan says. "It's a joke. I'll tell you later."

Dad asks me to repeat the email slowly, so he can write it down. He reads it back to me, and then comments that Jake was one of the largest investors in Neptune real estate. "He bought a lot of property before the incorporation vote. Real estate prices took a hit when the vote went the wrong way, so he held onto all that property he'd invested in. I suppose if the real estate market is collapsing, Jake could be hurting badly. I just don't know if Jake has enough juice to get Schwarzeneggar on board."

I say, "The charges in Neptune are bullshit. No one was hurt, and if Jake doesn't want to press charges, everything could just go away. One big misunderstanding that everyone can laugh about. They could add a year onto Logan's probation, and everyone would probably be satisfied. But what about Arkansas and Chicago?"

Dad says, "They don't know it was you in Chicago."

"Gory knows."

Logan says, "Gory might be dead."

"But if he's not, and he decides to go to the police—"

"With a crazy tale, that an eighteen-year-old girl shot and killed a Russian mobster in a town that has no record of her ever being there. Correct?" Dad asks. "You told me you were careful, and I believe you. You used cash for everything. You were disguised. The gun is gone and can't be tied to you. It's been five months. If there was a video of you or any credible eyewitnesses, we'd know about it."

I'm probably on somebody's vacation video from Navy Pier. And Lynard knows my face. Could he be convinced to testify, and would he be credible? Would he come forward and rat me out? What if he needed something to deal with the cops—

I tell myself sternly Lynard doesn't know what happened at Navy Pier and push the thoughts away. What could he really tell the cops? Some girl he met on a bus was trying to get away from a scary guy in a brown suit. But Chicago's not our only worry, and we need to focus. "What about El Dorado? They _know_ that was us. Discharging a firearm, impersonating a law officer, escape from custody … those charges aren't going to disappear."

"I don't know. Email Cliff and ask."

Then Logan really starts arguing. "This is insane! We have a decent life here. You really want to go back? To a town that's infested with Mexican drug lords and Irish meth heads? A town that hated me because I was rich, and despised you because you were poor and honest? They _deserve_ Vinnie for their sheriff."

My head really aches and I'm suddenly completely exhausted, thinking about everything that's happened. "You know, I'd really like the charges to be dropped, so we can have a future. And we don't have to go back," I retort. "We can stay here and start using our real names."

"No, Veronica. Quid pro quo," Dad says spitefully. "If I know Jake Kane, he'll tie us up in legalese, and we'll be serving a new master back in Neptune. To get the charges dropped, we'll have to give him some assurance that we'll do what he wants."

"So let's forget about it," Logan says. "Just forget that we ever saw the ad."

Dad sighs. "I really don't know. My main concern is for your future, the two of you. You'll always be running. You'll never be able to put down roots, won't be able to go to a good college, probably won't ever be able to have kids."

Logan says, "Not true. We can have kids. I think in a few years we'll have solid identities here and we can think about it."

I'm shocked into silence. We've never talked about this.

"You'd purposely put a kid into this situation?" Dad says, his voice suddenly filled with anger. "Don't you dare."

"Oh, fuck this," Logan says.

I hear unintelligible noises on their end. "What's going on?" I'd inadvertently raised my voice, and a couple of passersby in the park turn to look at me. Quieter, I say, "Dad, what's going on? Logan?"

"I'm taking a fucking walk, is that all right with you?" I haven't heard that tone in Logan's voice in a long, long time. Not since Chapel Hill.

"Calm down," Dad says. "We're just talking."

With biting sarcasm, Logan says, "_'Don't you dare.'_ Fuck you, Keith. I got us here. I made us safe. We _will_ be safe. Don't _you_ dare fuck this up." I strain my ears and over the speaker I hear a bang.

The phone timbre changes, and I hear Dad's voice, not on speaker. "Honey? You still there?"

"Yeah. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

After a moment, I say, "Should I stay here or come back home?"

"Come back. I want to talk about this, all three of us. And I need you to calm him down. And if this is a trap, making whoever it is sweat a little might get them to show their hand."

"Did you mean that, what you said? About never having kids?"

He sighs. "Tell me the truth. Do you think we're ever really going to be one hundred percent safe? Safe enough to have a baby or a toddler running around underfoot? You know someone could recognize one of us at any time, especially Logan."

"Yeah, I suppose. Maybe he shouldn't do that job—he's running into too many Americans."

"He needs to feel useful, honey. We can't coop him up out of sight. You remember—"

"I know! I'll see you in a few hours."

On the bus ride back to Puerta Plata, I try to visualize what my life would be like here in twenty years, and Paradise keeps coming up short.

°•°•°

The sun is setting by the time I arrive at the marina in Puerta Plata. _Panacea _is gone from the dock, and I see her moored in her usual place. A group of cruisers are returning from dining out at a restaurant and they give me a ride out to _Panacea_ in their dinghy. "Everything okay, Vicky?" one of the women asks as we motor out to the mooring.

I fake a smile. "Yeah. Just a really long week."

Dad hears us coming, and he's on deck, waiting to give me a hand onto the boat. "How was the bus ride?"

"Freezing, as usual. You need a winter coat for those buses." I look around and see a dark shape seated on the bow, leaning against the mast. "Have you and he talked at all?"

"He's not speaking to me." Dad gives me a wan smile and heads down below as I step onto the foredeck.

I'm surprised to see the glowing red ember of a cigarette in Logan's fingers. "Since when do you smoke?" I drop down to the deck and share the mast with him.

He's spinning a cigarette pack around on the deck and he doesn't look up when I sit down. I can see that several cigarettes are missing from the pack, and he reeks of smoke. "I used to steal Aaron's cigarettes all the time. I just never smoked around you. I'm not a nicotine addict or anything. Just sometimes when everything seems impossible—"

He shrugs and takes a deep drag before stubbing out the cigarette on the sole of his boat shoe and pocketing the butt. "I don't want to get shit-faced drunk, and I kind of felt like that after you called. You know, my usual loser way of dealing with all the crap that life gives me. This," he motions to the cigarette pack, "seemed like it'd be okay, just this once, just a little chemical help to keep me from downing a quart of tequila. Sorry. I'm sure you don't approve." There's a palpable edge to his voice, just this side of that famous Echolls sarcasm.

"It's fine. What's going on with you?"

Logan gives me a sharp look. "You know."

"No, I don't know."

"I like our life here."

"So do I. Mostly."

"I like being _me_ here. I never realized that I could be someone other than the son of the infamous Aaron Echolls, and it's pretty fucking great to be Randy Donahue, professional surf bum and sailing instructor. And—"

"And what?" I ask.

"I'm falling in love with you."

I snort. "We're married. Mr. and Mrs. Donahue, remember? And of course you love me."

"No, I mean … I'm really falling in love with you. I want to stand up and tell the world that I'm going to spend my life with you. I've always _loved_ you, but we've never been _in love_ before." He shrugs. "Semantics, I know."

"And kids?"

"Yeah. I think I'd like that. Eventually." Logan turns to look at me. "Aren't you feeling it, too? You know, like we should make a commitment to each other? Jesus, maybe I'm fucking deluded, and you're just making the best of a bad situation."

"Of course I'm feeling it." I twist the cheap wedding ring I'd picked out in Virginia Beach to go along with my new identity. "You know, we've been so busy since we got here that there hasn't been time to dissect what was going on with you and me. But it's been good. And I like you here too. That job is good for you. And I think Dad and I are good for you too."

He turns away when I mention Dad. "Uh-huh."

"Cut him some slack, will you? He's a reasonable person. We can discuss this. I thought you guys liked each other."

"You heard what he said. Didn't sound too reasonable to me. Sounded like he thought I was a total jackass."

I huff a breath in exasperation. "Look. I'm not going to have a baby right this second, all right? Can we agree that we're going to revisit this at a later date?"

"Except it factors in. You guys are all gung-ho about going back, and I want to forget that Neptune even exists."

"It's kind of like when you and Dad decided to sail here, and I didn't want to. And we came to a consensus." I thread my fingers through his. "I'm not saying we should go for it. But can you envision a life for us back in the United States, under our own names and without all the charges against us? There must have been some point in time when you could imagine that kind of life for us."

"Actually, even when we were together in the United States, I always felt that someday you'd decide I was too big of a jerkoff and you'd leave me. I don't feel like that here."

I suck in a breath. Now we're getting to it. "You're not a jerkoff."

"In the United States, I'm a rich brat who's always getting into fights, drinking too much, and never making anything of myself. Here …" He sweeps his hand around the boat. "Here, I'm important. I'm needed. I'm an equal contributor. Well, maybe not equal. You guys make more money than me."

"But you take care of the boat for us, too. And you got us here." I lean my head against his shoulder. "I'm with you because I want to be with you. If we go back, you can contribute there too. You can change your life, you can do anything you want. Look at how you got us here—that took courage and resourcefulness."

"Yeah. Maybe. The only thing is—" He breaks off and refuses to look at me.

"What?"

"It's … " Breaking off, he sighs like the world is ending. "What about Gory?"

I'm quite certain he was going to say something else, but I have no idea what it is. For now I play along. "What _about_ Gory? I think his father took care of him for us. That was the goal, right?"

"No body. I would feel a lot better if his body turned up. What if this is all some ploy by Gory to get us to come back, and Jake Kane will pull the rug out from under us when we cross the border? And then The Castle gets the last laugh."

Scoffing, I say, "You think Jake Kane is going to go through all this just to bring us back, so that Gory can kill us? Or to get us thrown in prison? Pfft. We're like gnats that Jake Kane slaps at. A trifling bother. We're only important now because he needs Dad for the worst sheriff's job in the world."

"What if we missed something on the hard drive? Something worth killing over?"

"You're the one who transcribed it. Did you miss anything? Was there anything we need to look at again?"

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. I'm pretty sure I got it all. Maybe you should look at it again—"

Touching his arm, I feel all the tension in him. "Try not to worry so much. If we decide to do this, we'll get it all in writing. And we don't have to make a decision right this second. Dad thinks if we let them stew a little bit, they might get desperate and make their agenda clear."

He shrugs and I add, "But seriously, Logan, wouldn't you like to have your bank accounts unfrozen? We could buy a yacht like Stellner's. C'mon, Admiral Moneybags, don't you wish you could drop a bundle on a solid gold foosball table like the old days?"

"No, not for a second."

From the galley, Dad yells, "Anybody want dinner? I heated up some of the chili. With bread from that bakery you guys like."

Feeling Logan tense, I nudge him hard. "Just relax, okay? You are two reasonable men, and we'll figure this out. Two buccaneers and their favorite wench. Let's forget about Neptune and just have a nice dinner."

As we head for the cockpit, I turn and say, "And now I'd like you to explain that four-handed Thai massage, please."


	30. Chapter 30: Possibilities

**TITLE:** Possibilities (30b/32)  
**AUTHOR:** **vanessagalore  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 5,534  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing and sex between consenting adults.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

_******NOTE: This is the 'T' or PG13 version of this chapter**** **_

_**You can read the 'Mature' version at: www DOT fanfiction DOT net SLASH s SLASH 10164961 SLASH 1**_

* * *

_They have arrived in the Dominican Republic and have made new lives for themselves: Veronica works in a casino, Logan teaches surfing and sailing, and Keith works as a security guard for a wealthy businessman, Richard Stellner. Everything is going very well, until they see an ad in the New York Times: a message from Cliff McCormack. They make contact and find out Jake Kane is attempting to arrange a pardon for their crimes in exchange for Keith returning to his job as Neptune Sheriff._

* * *

Chapter 30: Possibilities

We discuss Jake's offer until late at night on Saturday and all day Sunday, and we're no closer to a resolution, with Logan continuing to insist that it's a trap and that he really likes our life here. Dad and Logan are on a knife's edge of a blowout argument, with both of them just barely on the side of rational discourse.

I play peacemaker, begging both of them to try to see the other's viewpoint; in desperation, I swear that if they agree to compromise with each other, I will accept their decision no matter what. But terse words and half-spoken recriminations are the sole result, with the only agreement being that this completely sucks. Sunday evening, Dad leaves for his apartment, and when I return from delivering him to shore in the dinghy, Logan's ensconced in the engine compartment doing some maintenance job and clearly avoiding me.

Dragging the cushions to the foredeck, I lie down, hoping for the blissful nothingness of sleep. I can't imagine leaving the immense beauty of this star-filled sky and the intimacy that Logan and I have achieved here, but I also can't fathom cowering and keeping my head down for the next fifty years. I try to envisage continuing my relationship with him back in Neptune and tell myself it definitely won't blow up in our faces this time. The Caribbean setting helped, the closeness of our desperate situation helped, but we could have ... Maybe it would have ... Certainly we might have ...

Finally I admit it. Maintaining our relationship is a lot easier when we don't have a choice.

I wait, expecting him to join me, but instead I hear a wrench drop with a clang, and a few muttered curse words. I keep sitting up whenever I hear a noise, hoping that I'll see him emerging from the companionway to join me on deck. But the darkness deepens, the stars pulsate ever more brightly, and I am alone.

Exhaustion overtakes me and I allow my eyes to close.

•°•°•

_I feel impossibly good. We're in bed, he's caressing me, so slowly, so gently, I just want this to go on forever. I want this dream to go on forever, don't stop, don't stop, mmm, so nice._

Not a dream. Prying my eyes open, I see an early morning sun winking over the horizon as a fresh breeze gently rocks _Panacea._

He's waking me up the very best way you can wake a girl up. Soft pressure on my flesh, lips tasting my skin, with no urgency at all, as if this might go on forever.

Not a dream.

_Don't stop, don't stop. So nice._

"Morning," I whisper.

Nuzzling my ear, he says quietly, "No talking, no thinking." He kisses me, his fingers caressing me all the while.

_No thinking_—the impossibility of our situation and yesterday's heated arguments come flooding back, and I tense. His hand draws lazy circles on my belly, gentling me back to relaxation and oblivion. I focus on my breathing, making it as deep and slow as possible, and concentrate on each spot his mouth grazes, and the utter _nowness_ of it all. There is no future, no past, just togetherness in the most intimate, infinite way.

When I'm limp and helpless again, he urges me further. All of me is completely open to him, and he presses harder, pushing me to fly. Fingers caress my skin, mine and his together, brushing against each other. And then his hand clasps mine, holding on tight. He urges me further, all pent-up energy released in an effort to break me.

I shatter into a thousand pieces, Veronica is gone, Vicky is gone, this is just cells struggling for cohesion and _he_ is everywhere, everything, everyone. He looms above me, floating just beyond my consciousness. Arms, forceful and merciful, contort my body into the desired position and he is within me. He is me.

I want this moment to go on _forever ... forever ... forever ..._

He is watching me as I return to coherence. His gaze is not embarrassing, not prurient, not even loving. Something is different, a visage I've never seen before. His expression tells me not to ask.

His hand caresses my cheek, and he mutters, "You'll never know—" and then he pushes himself off the deck and disappears down below.

And I am afraid.

•°•°•

I go to work at the casino, and all of a sudden the job seems interminable. I'd mostly enjoyed the work up until now, which consists of encoding club cards and running the computer software that assigns each gambler a number that determines what free 'comps' they're eligible for. For people that are interested in a line of credit, I direct them to the 'casino cage' on the main floor, but frequent customers are already set up, with their bank accounts linked to their club card, and these gamblers are assigned a higher frequency of comps.

Big losers are big profit for the casino, and management pays for greens fees, hotel rooms, spa visits, and lots of free meals and drinks to keep happy gamblers shelling out money, with each bet tracked with the club card. Today, my job seems sordid and futile, a legalized means of exploiting human frailties. I feel like shaking some of the customers and explaining to them that the cost of their free drinks was the hundred dollars that they'd lost at the blackjack table. But the clients love comps, and comps drive repeat business, as I'd been informed in my orientation.

I'm good at my job. We use a computer algorithm that maximizes casino profit by strategically using comps as players' 'discouragement index' rises. Plastering on a smile, I can make a gambler think that he is the only one to whom I've ever gifted a luxury hotel suite. It's always been easy for me to associate names with faces, and the clients are ridiculously flattered when I call them by name, sidling alongside them at the craps table and offering yet another free drink coupon. They smile at me and throw the dice—snake eyes yet again—and their comp number and value to the casino rises. Ka-ching. I've done it hundreds of times, and everyone from the lowly slot machine player to the casino's chief of operations seems to see the comp system as status quo.

But today I feel dirty. It's true that Mars Investigations saw the seamy underbelly of Neptune, but we always could delude ourselves that we were helping somebody: to tweak their divorce settlement, to satisfy their fears about a possibly cheating spouse, to find that long-lost uncle. We even got justice for a few victims and maybe even revenge. And the ends always justified the means, and, damn, it felt good.

At least it _did_, until I stole Jake Kane's hard drive and completely screwed up my life and that of my friends and family.

Here at Casino Paradiso de Puerta Plata, I'm just one cog in the wheel designed to efficiently loot the unsuspecting gambler of all his funds. I'm a grifter, the roper who pulls in the mark for the ultimate scam. Maybe this is what I deserve after what I did back in Neptune: judgmental, out-of-control Veronica Mars, finally taken down a peg and exiled to the Dominican Republic.

"Bad day, Vicky?" Angel, a security department employee, asks as he adjusts one of the cameras behind my workstation. Every customer and employee is surveilled by thousands of cameras throughout the casino, and my usual location at the main entrance is the first opportunity for security to identify potential problems. When I'd realized that my job would be so extensively documented, I'd almost bailed, but the job was far better paying than anything else I was eligible for. Usually I can ignore the Orwellian surveillance, but today it's making me as tense as hitting on sixteen at blackjack.

I can't hold back a sigh even as I obfuscate. "I'm just a little tired. I didn't get enough rest this weekend."

"Still celebrating your honeymoon, huh?" Angel says. Everyone knows that 'Randy' and I are newlyweds—it's a convenient excuse to not hang out with the other employees.

"You bet." I click a few keystrokes, desultorily checking up on the losers du jour. "Um, Angel? Don't you ever feel a little funny about all these people gambling away their hard-earned money? It's a little dreary."

He frowns. "I don't ever think about it." Whistling tunelessly, Angel replaces the one-way mirror covering the camera behind my desk. He triggers his walkie-talkie. "How's the video now?"

Over the walkie, we hear, "All clear. Check on camera number five by craps table number one."

Angel says, "Hey. I know what will cheer you up. Come take a tour of security. It's really cool, very high-tech. You won't believe it." Angel's been telling me for the last few weeks that I'm too smart for hospitality and pushing me to apply for a job in his department.

I've been putting him off because I know there are a few ex-cops from the United States working in the department. The likelihood that they'll know me is remote, but prudence has gotten us this far.

But today, I throw caution to the winds. _Fuck hospitality_. Since day one, I've been telling myself—_convincing_ myself—that this is a good job, but now...

There are possibilities.

Maybe I won't have to sweet-talk degenerate gamblers for the rest of my life. My old life is waiting for me back in Neptune, if Logan would just see reason—

_It's just a tour. I'm not doing anything wrong._

_But ... his face this morning._

_I need this. I need this!_

I put on a smile. "Okay. After work. I'm off at five. Thanks."

"Excellent! I'll come find you."

•°•°•

I practically moan with pleasure when we walk into the security department. It's soundproofed, the interminable ka-chunk and ding-ding of the one-arm bandits and the constant crowd murmur silenced by thick walls and lush carpeting. Air-conditioning blasts, cooling the computers that are everywhere. I recognize a few of the programs running on the screens as ones we'd used in Mars Investigations. Employees are monitoring cameras, running data analyses, and investigating the nefarious motivations of the casino's clients.

It's like coming home.

Angel walks me around the room, introducing me to people. "About two-thirds of the security department works on the floor, either in uniform or undercover. The rest collect data and monitor the cameras. Me and Rick," he nods at a guy fumbling with wires under a desk, "work IT support. Three shift supervisors, day, evening and night. A lot of the guys working out on the casino floor are ex-cops from the United States, guys who put in their twenty-five years and wanted an easier job in a warmer climate before they retired."

I sincerely hope that none of these guys are California or Arkansas cops who might've heard about that Neptune sheriff who went rogue.

We stop at a monitor and watch the casino cage, where players cash out or add a credit line to their club card. Angel says, "It's the most documented area of the casino. Two armed guards at all times."

The next monitor we visit shows one of the roulette wheels. We watch as the dealer spins the roulette wheel and then tosses a white ball around the rim in the opposite direction. The ball goes around and around as players place their bets on odd or even, the different colors, or the numbers themselves. The dealer sweeps her hand over the numbers on the table.

"That's the signal to stop betting," Angel mutters.

But just before the ball drops, a player wearing a tan suit leans forward and drops a pile of cash on one of the numbers. The dealer, a brunette girl in her twenties with a severe hairstyle, looks aggravated, and she picks up the bet and tells the gambler that his bet was too late. The man argues, but she is adamant. She then starts to pay off the winning bets on the table.

"Damn it. It's a past-post scam," the man watching the monitor says. "Raquel knows better than that. He picks up his walkie-talkie. "George. Roulette number two. Escort the gentlemen in the black shirt and the tan suit to the security office."

"Wait ... what happened?" I ask Angel.

"Tell her, Lou."

Lou stretches with a grimace. "It's the oldest trick in the book. You see—"

"Wait. Run the video again," I interrupt. "I want to see if I can figure it out."

I watch closely as the ball is put into play and the dealer stops the late bet just before paying the winners. "At the bottom of the screen," I point. "The guy in the black shirt is colluding with the guy in the tan suit who made the late bet. When the late bettor drops the cash on the table, he distracts the dealer, and the guy in the black shirt slides a winning bet into place."

Lou nods appreciatively in my direction. "Very good. Past-post scam is what we call it."

Angel nudges me. "See? You should be working here."

It's hard to suppress the thrill that runs through me. "Lucky guess," I reply.

"No, not luck," Lou says. "Good instincts. You said your name was Vicky, right?" He makes a little notation on his desk blotter.

A little fear niggles at me. Was it a mistake to let them see how smart I am? What if they decide to check me out? A lot of these guys are ex-cops—they'll see right through my bullshit resume. I resolve to keep my mouth shut until the tour is over.

Lou says, "I bet these guys have tried that trick in other casinos. He's probably on the watch list. The guy in the black shirt looks familiar." He opens up a file on his computer and begins scanning surveillance photos. I can't help myself: I look over his shoulder at the miscreants.

Lou stops on one of the photos, and we see the guy in the black shirt from the tables, although here he's wearing a white shirt open to the navel. "Here he is. Danny Rosario. He's bad news. I've had my suspicions that he's been running a scam, but we haven't been able to catch him. Until today." Rosario has a smirk on his face, full, dark eyebrows and gelled hair. He sports a gold cross with a large diamond in the center around his neck, above a very hairy chest displayed by the open shirt.

"Wow, look at that diamond. What's going to happen to him?" I ask, deciding that it's a completely normal question.

"We'll offer to drop the charges if he'll return the payoff and then we'll ban him from the casino. It's not worth prosecuting, which is what these guys count on. Rosario will just move on to the next casino. I'll let the other casinos know, but there's about a thousand guys on the watch list at any one time. He'll manage to do this scam twenty more times before he moves on to something new."

We move on to another station and watch a blackjack dealer on the monitor. After the hand is over, the dealer pays off the winner one chip at a time, side by side.

Angel teases, "So, smarty-pants, notice anything about how the dealer makes the payout?"

It's completely obvious to me that the dealer is demonstrating for the camera that he's paying off the correct amount. A stack of chips could conceal a higher value chip on the bottom, passed to a confederate. But I play dumb. I'm sure now that it was a mistake to show off about the roulette scam. "Gee, I don't know. Is there something wrong with the chips?"

Angel seems disappointed. "We have a rule here that the dealers have to show the cameras that they're not concealing any higher value chips when they pay out. Hey, I'm sure you would've figured it out eventually."

"Maybe," I say.

Angel grabs my elbow and guides me over to a lanky blond man staring morosely at a computer screen. "Chip, this is the woman I was telling you about."

Chip rouses himself to shake my hand. "You're younger than I'd thought," he says absentmindedly. "You're over twenty-one?"

My identification claims that I am, so I nod yes. "Vicky," I say, sticking out my hand to shake.

Chip grasps my hand. "My name's actually John, but they call me Chip because I used to be a dealer in Las Vegas. Now I do loss prevention. We get a lot of slip-and-fall type claims in the casino, and I run background checks and try to determine if they're fraudulent or truly victims. My assistants review the footage from the incidents, and then we settle with the claimant or bump it up to legal. About one in five claims are fraudulent. We're looking for someone who can analyze data and occasionally do a little undercover surveillance. And Angel seems to think you're too smart to be coding club cards and schmoozing the guests."

I'm practically drooling. Analyzing data and undercover surveillance—that's basically my dream job. But—

_Fuck._ They'd run a full background check for a job like that. I can't risk it.

I plaster on a smile. "I'm not sure that's really the job for me."

Chip cocks his head. "Really. I thought—"

I hasten to add, "Let me think about it. It sounds interesting but I like my job now."

Angel stares at me, remembering my earlier comment about the dreariness of my position and my stellar performance discerning the past-post scam. I realize that I've really screwed up. If Angel analyzes my performance during the tour with some of the other employees, maybe he'll— They'll figure out that—

_Remember, Veronica. You're an offender. A miscreant. A desperate criminal. And ex-cops and security guards are your enemies. Careful ... careful!_

Right now, I'd give anything to get the hell out of the DR and go back to my old life. I'm tired of watching my words and pretending to be something I'm not. I hate my short hair and my dead-end job. I hate this.

Angel escorts me to the employee locker room. "Vicky. I'm not sure what's going on with you. But I think you could be a good fit with our security team."

_Fix this. Fix this!_

"Randy and I had a terrible fight over the weekend. He wants to get started on having a family. And I'm not ready." It's close enough to the truth that I sell it easily, with my voice cracking a little.

"Oh, man," Angel replies. "I'm sorry, Vicky. No wonder you're distracted."

"It's just that, well, until we figure out what we're doing, I think I should just stay in my current position. The job you're talking about—it sounds like fun, but also a lot more responsibility, and that might not be the best move if I end up having a baby." The lies roll off my tongue. I'm pathologically good at dissembling.

•°•°•

Logan's waiting for me outside the front entrance.

"You didn't have to pick me up," I say, kissing him on the cheek.

"Yeah, well, I don't like you out after dark alone." He nods at the setting sun and puts his arm around my shoulders. We begin walking toward the parking lot entrance to wait for a bus back to the marina.

It's almost as if we didn't argue all weekend. And whatever the hell that was this morning.

As usual, he reads my mind. "We'll figure it out. I'm sorry I got so mad at your dad. He's right that we need to look at all our options."

I hug him, truly happy. I'm still worried, but he seems to be acting more rationally. Looking closely at his face, I realize that he has dark circles under his eyes. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Not really. I was thinking about things." He falls silent.

I hate it when he doesn't tell me what's going on, and I think there's a lot he's not telling me. We walk through the parking lot as the darkness descends.

A car pulls into a parking space, and a woman gets out. She paces by her car, tapping a cigarette pack viciously against her open palm, and then pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a deep drag.

"Whoa, somebody's having a bad day," Logan mutters.

"Some people smoke because they enjoy it," I reply. "You know?"

"Pfft. She's definitely not smoking because she enjoys it." He pretends to lean down to kiss me, but instead plants a wet raspberry on my neck.

"Stop," I protest. And because I'm nosy, I keep watching the woman as we approach. She seems familiar. Maybe she's one of the casino's frequent flyers, someone I've comped. She's still pacing, checking her watch in between frantic puffs on her cigarette.

It feels good to watch her, to _surveil_ her. To figure out what's going on. It's almost as if the security tour flipped a switch in my brain, and now I'm having a hard time shutting it down.

A man steps out of a car and walks toward her. She drops her cigarette and grinds it out with her shoe as he approaches.

And now I recognize her. It's not someone I've comped. It's Melissa, Stellner's assistant, who'd been so cool and efficient when I'd met her a week ago. Right now, she seems totally rattled.

And the man approaching her? His outfit is dark, and when he turns to Melissa I see the reflection of something shiny at his neck. I can't see his face, and I tug on Logan's arm, urging him toward the couple. "Walk this way, okay?"

"Hmm?"

"When we get a little closer, I want to look at the guy. Turn me and kiss my neck so I can see him without attracting attention."

"Hah. Kiss you? Well, I never!"

"Shut up and do it."

After five paces, Logan stops me and kisses me on the lips before concentrating on giving me the hickey of a lifetime. Meanwhile, I'm looking at the man. He's grasping Melissa's upper arm, and not gently. I can't hear the words, but I can discern stress in her body posture. The man turns his face a little, and I see the dark, thick eyebrows and slicked back hair above a gold cross. Danny Rosario.

"Okay, let's keep walking now," I whisper. "Pretend you're hot for me. Wandering hands, you know the drill." I set a quick pace, pulling him along toward the main gate as he mauls me. We step outside the parking lot gates and I pull away.

"Um, not that that wasn't fun, but what the hell is going on?"

"That guy. He's bad news. I watched him get tossed out of the casino today. And the woman is Stellner's assistant." I can't keep the excitement out of my voice. I peek around the gate. They're still discussing something very intensely, Rosario's hand still clasping Melissa's arm with a vengeance. And then he twists her arm, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. He slaps her face hard and she sags against the car. Rosario looks around to see if anyone noticed, and I pull my head back behind the gate.

Logan's right behind me. "What's going on?"

I peak again, and I see Rosario walking toward us. It would be very bad to be caught watching him. "Let's get to the bus bench, hurry up," I whisper tersely. Logan beats me with his long legs, but a few seconds later I'm on his lap and we're making out like teenagers at prom.

Logan whispers in my ear, "He's checking us out. I think he saw you."

"Uh-huh." I run my fingers through Logan's hair and pretend to kiss his neck. "Now what's he doing?"

"He's walking back into the parking lot."

I try to remember what his car looked like. But I'd been focused on Melissa and the security lighting didn't do much to illuminate his car. _He probably parked far away from a light on purpose,_ I thought. "Don't stop. Keep making out."

"Yes, ma'am."

A few moments later, a car exits the casino parking lot at high speed, the tires whining as it turns onto the road. Logan says, "Pretty sure that was him," and I break off kissing him.

"Let's get a cab. I want to tell Dad what I saw. I think Melissa's in trouble. And that means Dad might be in trouble. Stellner's an attractive target. That lowlife might be using Melissa to get to Stellner."

•°•°•

Dad sighs. "Veronica. It's an awfully big leap. What did you really see? Two people having a fight."

I counter, "A known criminal slapping the trusted assistant of one of the richest men in Puerta Plata. I think it's worth a second look. What business would he have with her?"

"What would you have me do?"

I fume. "I don't know. Investigate her. Follow her, run a credit check."

"You can't be positive that it was Melissa. You met her once, and you said it was dark. And you know I don't have access to those kinds of databases anymore."

"You could follow her! Tomorrow, you could ask her what she did the evening before and catch her in a lie."

Dad grimaces. "People are allowed to lie. They're also allowed to have inappropriate relationships with sketchy dudes. Maybe Melissa met this guy in a bar."

"So that means he assaulted her tonight. Call your friend Miguel on the _policía_ and see if she reported it. The guy's name is Danny Rosario. Maybe he even has a record or an outstanding warrant."

"Veronica ... he slapped her. I'm not saying that it's okay, but Melissa might not have wanted to get the cops involved. Especially if she was embarrassed about having a relationship with this creep."

"My instinct says something is going on," I say through gritted teeth. "There was a time when you trusted my instinct."

"That was before we had to be careful to keep our heads down."

"And I'm worried whatever this is will make your job even more dangerous."

Dad stands up and paces around the studio apartment. "How would you suggest that I follow her? I don't have a car."

"Surveil her apartment!"

He rolls his eyes. "Take a cab to her apartment, hide in the bushes and watch her. Right. Melissa probably lives in one of the gated communities, Veronica."

Logan has kept quiet until now. "I think you should listen to Veronica. It felt pretty wrong to me. It felt ... _scary._ Not just bad boyfriend scary. And Veronica has a good instinct about these things."

He always has the capacity to surprise me. And it surprises Dad too.

Dad says, "All right."

"Jeez, you listen to him," I mutter.

"Veronica, I'm listening to you. I'll call Stellner's chief of security and mention that you saw Melissa in an unusual situation and you were worried about her."

•°•°•

When we get back to the boat, I'm completely wired, jazzed by the security tour and the parking lot incident. The small boat can't contain my nervous energy, so I put on a bathing suit and swim around the boat ten times. Finally, I'm panting with exhaustion and Logan helps to pull me up the swim ladder and wraps me in a towel. I cling to him and he draws me into a tight hug.

"I can't take it anymore," I whisper. "I hate hiding. I don't want to do that job forever, I hate it."

"I know," he replies.

"What are we going to do? I know you don't want to go back."

"We're not going to figure it out tonight. Do you think you're going to be able to sleep? I'm pretty wiped out, and I need to go to bed before I pass out."

I nod. "Yeah, I'm tired too. I think it's going to rain tonight."

"Yeah, the V-berth it is."

We're awakened by the radio. "_Panacea_, do you read me? _Panacea_." A series of clicks, and then the message repeats.

Logan strides to the comm station and clicks on the radio microphone. "This is _Panacea_."

I squint at the clock as I throw on some clothes. 6:30am.

It's Dad. "Randy, can you pick me up at the dock?"

Logan glances at me. We've changed our code words, and now we say 'nice weather we're having' to indicate that all is well. 'I don't know, sometimes I miss snow,' means prepare to run. 'I hear there's a snowstorm up north' means drop everything and go. Logan asks, "Everything's okay? How's the weather?"

"Oh, I'm sorry—the weather is _excellent_ today. See you in a few minutes."

I can't wait the ten minutes it'll take for Logan to ferry Dad to the boat, so I jump in the dinghy too. Logan guns it, making a comical wake with the dinghy as we weave between the moored boats.

Dad has a broad smile. As soon as we leave the dock again, he says, "Guess who's been arrested for conspiracy and attempted kidnapping?"

I gasp. "Rosario?!"

"Yeah. Rafael, Stellner's chief of security, ran Melissa's credit report and was pretty surprised to find that she's completely broke despite a very generous salary. So we paid a visit to Melissa last night. She's got a huge bruise on her cheek and her wrist was sprained. And she'd obviously been crying. After questioning her for hours, she finally admitted that she owes a lot on some gambling debts. Rosario was planning to use Melissa to kidnap Stellner's kids. He'd threatened to kill her if she didn't cooperate. So guess who's a big old hero?" He points his thumb at his chest. "I smell a promotion!"

I clear my throat. "_You're_ getting all the credit?"

Dad chuckles. "Stellner wants us to come for dinner tonight. He'd like to thank my delightful 'daughter-in-law' who was smart enough to put two and two together. And her husband of course." He grabs me around the waist and pulls me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. "Sorry I doubted you, honey."

"Don't let it happen again," I retort.

"She'll be insufferable now," Logan remarks.

•°•°•

I'm wearing a new dress, and Logan splurged on a new tie and dress shirt with a pair of his khakis. Dad looks nice too, and we arrive at Stellner's mansion right on time for dinner.

We're escorted to the dining room, and Stellner toasts me and Dad, his 'heroes.' We make small talk about Dominican and U.S. politics and the weather during a meal of roast beef with new potatoes and asparagus in a creamy garlic sauce. Stellner decants an excellent red wine and it all feels quite unreal, after all these months of tuna casseroles, meatloaf and peanut butter sandwiches. And for dessert, we have a wonderful fruit preserve called casquitos de guayaba served over ice cream.

Dad leans over to me and whispers, "Mr. Stellner's chef is incredible, right?"

I can't even speak with the delectable fruit melting in my mouth.

Stellner seems pleased that we're enjoying the meal. When we've finished, he pats his mouth with his napkin and says, "Let's go out to the veranda."

He leads the way to a stone and wood structure off the back of the house. Exotic plants and torches ring the upholstered seating area. I catch Dad looking at something off to the side with a frown. Turning, I see Rafael, Stellner's chief of security, standing with his arms crossed behind his back. He nods to me, remembering me from when I visited Dad when he'd been hurt in the burglary attempt. I try to catch Dad's eye, but he won't look at me.

Stellner walks to a bar and pours himself a drink, ice and whiskey of some sort. "Anyone else like a drink?" We all shake our heads, and he sits down. We follow his lead. The executive takes a sip of his whiskey before placing it on the table in front of him. Interlacing his fingers together, he says, "So, who are you people really?"


	31. Chapter 31: Pardon

**TITLE:** Pardon (31/32)  
**AUTHOR:** **vanessagalore  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 5,043  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and jenilyn831. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Veronica takes a tour of the security department at the casino and watches as a man is removed from the casino for cheating. Later, she and Logan see the man arguing with the assistant of Keith's wealthy employer, Richard Stellner, and Veronica leaps to the conclusion that something nefarious is going on. Keith notifies Stellner of Veronica's suspicions and a kidnapping plan is foiled. Stellner invites them to dinner to thank them._

* * *

Chapter 31: Pardon

Stellner asks, "So, who are you people really?" He nods to his security chief, who walks over. "Would you mind standing, Cal? Or whatever your name is."

Rafael produces an electronic wand and passes it over Dad's body. Dad says, "I'm not armed. I don't have any devices on me."

Stellner says, "Your companions as well, please."

Logan stands and he's scanned too, and then it's my turn. When I sit down, Logan puts his arm around my shoulders, and from the other side, Dad clasps my hand, squeezing it to reassure me.

Stellner's gaze is intense. "I'm very grateful that you discovered this plot to take my children. Melissa admitted that the kidnapping was in its final planning stages, and there's a good chance that someone would have been injured or killed, not to mention the large ransom they would have demanded from me.

"But it's clear to me and Rafael that you are no ordinary security guard. Your resume doesn't indicate that you have interrogation experience, yet you managed to get Melissa to tell her story. Last week, you disarmed an intruder and foiled a burglary attempt. And this woman," he indicates me, "an entry-level employee at the casino, alerted you to a conspiracy based on little more than observing a parking lot argument. She's quite a keen observer."

Stellner picks up his drink, delaying a little by shaking the ice and watching the liquid swirl around. He takes a healthy sip before replacing the drink on the table. "Well, Cal? Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"My name is Keith Mars. This is my daughter Veronica and her friend Logan Echolls."

Stellner's forehead creases. The name 'Echolls' is familiar to him.

Dad continues, "Yes, that Echolls. I was formerly the sheriff of a town in California called Neptune. My daughter and I have both worked as private investigators for several years. There were ... circumstances that compelled us to flee town."

"Are you wanted by the police?"

"Yes."

"And do the charges have merit?"

"Some of them."

I interrupt, "That's not the whole story. There was a mobster—"

Dad says sternly, "Veronica. I'm telling this." He turns back to Stellner. "There was a valid concern that if we stayed and faced the charges against us that a man with a grudge against my daughter and her boyfriend might hurt them, especially if I was incarcerated and unable to protect them."

"And Dad's put away a lot of gang members while he was sheriff. He wouldn't be safe in prison."

Dad glares at me. "Veronica."

"It's true," I insist.

"Mr. Stellner, every day I wonder if I made the right choice in leaving. I'm a man who made upholding the law my life's work, and it's been very troubling to face the fact that I've committed a crime and fled the jurisdiction."

It's not fair that Dad's taking this on himself. I explain, "He broke the law to protect me from the consequences of something I did. This is all _my_ fault."

"Veronica." Dad's hand tightens on my knee. "Enough."

"Stay here, Mr. Mars. I'd like to look up your case for myself." Stellner stands and walks back into the house.

In a low voice, Logan asks, "Should we try to leave? The boat's ready, we could haul anchor and be on the ocean in half an hour."

"I don't think Rafael is going to let us leave," I whisper.

So we sit in silence.

Seconds stretch to minutes, and then it's over an hour, worrying about what's going to happen. A few days ago, we had a light at the end of the tunnel. Is that still going to be an option? What if Stellner decides to just turn us in?

Now I know exactly how Logan felt when he performed CPR on that woman in Arkansas. It was the right thing to do, but it meant that he'd lost his freedom. I don't regret foiling the kidnapping plot, but it looks like we've lost everything again.

Stellner returns with a sheaf of papers. "Spoliation of evidence. Obstruction of justice." He nods at Logan. "Probation violation and a new battery charge. And a violent incident in El Dorado, Arkansas that led to charges of impersonating a police officer, felony escape, discharging a weapon, and car theft. But when I dug a little deeper, I found that Mr. Echolls saved a woman's life in El Dorado, and the violence aspect seemed a bit overstated.

"And Keith, I was impressed by your dogged investigation of the Lilly Kane case. I understand that Veronica had something to do with that investigation as well." He glances at Logan. "It seems quite ironic that you'd be on the run with the son of the man who clearly was responsible for that murder. Veronica, your name came up twice more, in connection with the Neptune bus bombing and serial rapists at Hearst College."

He takes a swig of his drink, forgotten on the table for the last hour as he researched. Stellner grimaces at the melted ice. Dumping the drink in a potted plant, he walks over the bar to make a new one. "Sure you won't have one?"

Dad says, "Yes, I think I will take a drink. Please, whatever you're having."

Logan says, "No thanks," and I shake my head 'no.'

Stellner makes two more drinks and gives one to Dad. "That complicated history makes more sense with the particular talents you've demonstrated. There's no way you're an ex-club bouncer who's done a little security work." Glancing at me, he adds, "And you're clearly an unusual young woman."

Stellner sighs and sits down again. "My feeling is that you are good people who have made mistakes. I think it was unfortunate that you didn't feel that you could stay in Neptune to face the charges. It would have been a slap on the wrist, if the charges weren't dropped altogether."

I open my mouth to protest, and Stellner puts up a hand. "After reading all that, if you tell me that someone threatened your family, I believe you. I don't know if I would have made the same choices you did, but I know that I would do anything to save my own family. Including going on the run if I thought there were no other options."

Dad nods. "Exactly."

"I'll keep your secret, and Rafael will as well. No one else will be informed as to your real identity."

Dad's nodding his head, apparently lost in thought. Seeming to come to a decision, he leans forward and looks at Stellner intently. "There's been a new wrinkle lately. An attorney we trust has gotten in touch and told us that Jake Kane, perhaps the wealthiest and most powerful person in Neptune, has arranged a pardon for us, if I am willing to take on the sheriff's job again."

"Lilly Kane's father?" Stellner asks sharply.

"Yes. The current sheriff's administration has been rife with crime and corruption, and some of the wealthy residents are upset with the consequences to their real estate holdings. Kane is heavily invested in Neptune real estate, and he has connections to the governor, so it is possible that he could be exploring a pardon for us and an interim appointment for me as sheriff. The city council will rubber stamp whatever Kane wants, and I'm betting that most Neptune residents are heartily sick of the current sheriff's incompetence."

"So what's the problem?"

Logan says derisively, "We don't trust Jake Kane. It's a trap."

"We have concerns about the veracity of the pardon offer," Dad explains. "Frankly, it seems too good to be true. As you say, the original charges would only merit a slap on the wrist, but the incident in Arkansas? Impersonating an officer and felony evasion carry lengthy prison terms. And this person who wants to hurt us ... well, he has a connection to Jake Kane. We're concerned that this is just a new facet of his vendetta."

Dad stares at his drink, seemingly fascinated by the clinking ice cubes. "I'm afraid Mr. Kane has not always been one hundred percent truthful in the past, and he hasn't been a fan of the Mars family for quite some time. Although—" He exhales sharply. "I could see Jake putting aside his anger at me and Veronica if it affected his bottom line. I really don't know what to think. We do trust the person who contacted us, and he seems convinced that it's a valid offer."

"What would ease your concerns?" Stellner asks.

"A face-to-face meeting," I reply. "If we could talk to Jake Kane in person ... but we'd have to go back to the U.S., and we'd be sitting ducks if he's planning something. Jake's a complicated man, but he's not a great liar. I'd like to hear him say the words before I agree to this deal."

Dad nods. "Kane's definitely not a good liar. I easily caught him out when he concealed the truth about discovering Lilly's body."

"What if I brought him to you?" Stellner suggests.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

Stellner stands up and paces. "You did me the favor of a lifetime last night. I owe you. What if I were to fly Jake Kane and your attorney friend down here, and you could speak to them without going back to the U.S.? And my attorney could advise you on the legal documents as well."

"Then they'd know where we are," Logan says. "No, it won't work."

"Yes, it will," Stellner insists. "My private plane will pick them up in Miami or New York. The pilot will fly around for several hours before heading here, and then you can meet them in the plane, in my personal hangar at the airport. They don't need to disembark, so they don't have to clear customs. The airport officials are used to my plane making deliveries from the States, and they won't question this flight either. All Kane will know is that he flew for a certain amount of time to an unknown location. And after you talk, I'll return them to the United States, none the wiser as to your whereabouts."

"We can't ask you to do that," Dad protests. "I don't want you to get involved with our problems."

"You didn't ask. I offered."

Logan mutters, "Can they be blindfolded during the flight? And they need to be swept for electronic devices. I wouldn't put it past Kane to sneak a GPS on board."

"If you think it's necessary."

"Jake Kane is a highly intelligent man," Dad says. "I think it might be necessary."

"Logan? Will that be okay?" I ask.

He stares at the floor, unwilling to answer.

I say softly, "It's just information. We'll know much more about what's going on if we can talk to Jake face-to-face. It's not a binding decision. No one's forcing you to agree to anything."

Dad says, "Logan, this is a very generous offer that we would be crazy to decline."

"Right," he says. "Crazy. Sure. Go for it."

°•°•°

The last two weeks have been completely nerve-wracking. Dad worked with Stellner, going over every detail of the plan to bring Jake Kane and Cliff McCormack to the DR. Stellner's attorney hired a New York City lawyer to make contact with Jake; the New York lawyer doesn't know anything except that Kane will be picked up by private plane from LaGuardia Airport. The negotiations are anything but smooth, but finally Jake agrees to fly to New York, along with Cliff, to be taken to an undisclosed location to meet with us.

Mindful of Logan's worries, I spend every free moment going through the hard drive one last time. The pledges are still depressingly sociopathic, but I don't find anything new.

Logan works on the boat. He's clearly prepared to drop everything and run when things inevitably go wrong. His quiet stoicism about our plan is freaking me out. I try to reassure him that his concerns will be addressed, or we won't go back.

And the day finally arrives, and Stellner's driver picks us up in a limo and takes us to the airport.

°•°•°

We enter Stellner's private jet, and Jake and Cliff are ensconced in two club chairs, wearing blindfolds and listening to music on iPods. The interior of the jet looks more like a luxury corporate boardroom than a 747, leather chairs surrounding an oak table with a flatscreen TV and a bar off to the side.

I'm wearing a wig that approximates my normal coloring and hairstyle—there's no sense in displaying my current disguise. At first Logan refused to wear a wig, saying he wasn't about to shave his blond beard for this travesty, but I convinced him that we could temporarily dye his beard to match, so he looks quite a bit like the old Logan. Dad donned a ball cap and wig to conceal his shaved head and dyed his salt-and-pepper beard as well. Makeup for all of us, to downplay our tans, and we wear sweaters and pants more appropriate to a winter climate rather than the Caribbean. We've been using our current disguises for long enough that it's weird to see our normal hair color again, and even weirder to see these two men who played such important roles in our lives before we fled Neptune.

I feel completely tentative. Anything could happen here, and that's not a good feeling.

Dad checks that the sliding window covers are completely closed, and then removes the headphones on the two men. "You can remove the blindfolds now."

When Cliff removes his blindfold, he smiles broadly to see us, extending a hand to shake with Dad. "It's really good to see you." He cocks his head, examining our appearance. "Life on the run seems to suit you."

Beneath Jake's quiet exterior is a man seething with resentment. He's not happy to be here. When he speaks, he uses a controlled voice. "Keith, this was all very elaborate. I was not aware that you had any friends with private jets."

I snipe, "There's a lot you don't know about us."

Dad touches my arm. "Veronica." He turns to Jake. "We understand you have a proposition for us. We'd like to hear the terms and we'll need an explanation of how you plan to achieve pardons for us."

"I'm certainly not going to press charges regarding the theft of my hard drive. And I won't be allowing the D.A. access to that sensitive information. I've told them that this was a prank pulled by my daughter's best friend that went awry, and I've apologized for mistakenly filing charges."

Cliff adds, "So spoliation and obstruction go away. Veronica's burglary charge disappears."

Jake continues, "I believe that something happened to Gorya and he is not available to press battery charges against Logan. Would you know anything about that?"

"Not a thing," Dad says smoothly.

"We've located some 'witnesses,'" Cliff says, with air quotes, "who will testify that Gorya Sorokin attacked Logan in the cafeteria and Logan was merely defending himself. Without Gorya's testimony, that battery charge won't proceed. And Jake has asked Logan's probation officer to backdate paperwork saying that he been given permission to leave the jurisdiction. He'll schedule a new report date for termination of probation once you've returned to Neptune."

"That's all very nice. What about the charges that we incurred in Arkansas?"

Jake laughs without humor. "What the hell were you thinking? You'd gotten away cleanly."

Logan says flatly, "I was thinking I couldn't let that woman die."

Jake shakes his head in bewilderment.

Cliff clears his throat. "I believe that Mr. Kane knows the governor of Arkansas. He's a fellow member of something Mr. Kane referred to as a college fraternity organization."

I huff a laugh. "The Arkansas governor is in The Castle? Of course he is. What's his name?"

"Governor Bob Wilkins," Jake replies through gritted teeth.

"College cheating scandal," Logan comments. "Never would have made it into Yale Law without help."

Jake is really fuming now. It's offensive to him that we were somehow able to break the encryption on his device, and even worse, appear to be completely familiar with its contents. He glares at me. "You've caused a lot of trouble for me. Everyone in The Castle is insisting that I somehow fix this. There was a great deal of privileged information on that drive. I'm going to need your word that you'll forget everything you know about The Castle if we're going to proceed."

My voice is scornful. "Aw. Poor widdle Jake. All your psycho fraternity buds are mad at you."

Cliff interrupts, "Let's stay on track here. I've got an agreement with the El Dorado D.A.'s office for immunity from prosecution in regards to those charges." He passes a sheet of paper to Dad. "You might want to thank Mr. Kane. I don't believe it was easy to arrange this deal. Those, ahem, fraternity friends of Mr. Kane made all this possible. I think the Arkansas governor put pressure on the El Dorado District Attorney to cooperate in this matter."

Dad nods. "Thank you, Jake. I hope we can help each other." He scans the document while I read over his shoulder. "This says immunity was granted in exchange for essential information in an ongoing investigation." He glances at me. "I think it's all right."

"Yeah, I do too." I look at Logan, who shrugs.

Dad says, "I want to see all the paperwork. We have another attorney here who's going to look through it for us."

Cliff pulls out more documents from his briefcase and hands them to Dad, who walks out of the plane to give them to Stellner's lawyer.

It's silent in the plane while we wait for Dad to return. Jake stares at me and I realize that he absolutely hates me.

_Stop wasting time and get on with it._

_Mr. Kane?! Please help me!_

_Gorya, you know what you have to do._

I'm trembling, with my knee jumping involuntarily and my armpits flooded with sweat. I can't not say it. I need to know. "Mr. Kane? You thought I was your daughter. Didn't you ever ... would you have loved me if the paternity test had gone the other way? I was your daughter's best friend. How could you—" A single tear rolls down my cheek, and Logan hugs my shoulders.

Jake looks embarrassed. Embarrassed _for_ me. Not by me. "Veronica, when you get a little older, you'll understand that life is much more complicated than an accident of DNA. This was all settled years ago."

I gasp. "An accident of DNA? Did you ever love my mother? I don't understand what she saw in you. And I don't understand why you have always hated me. I might have been your daughter!"

"I'm trying to help you now, Veronica."

Dad reenters the cabin in time to hear Jake's remark. "No, Jake. You're trying to help yourself. Your real estate holdings have tanked, and you can't find another sucker to clean up Vinnie Van Lowe's mess."

Jake sniffs. "Yes, that's exactly right. You've shown that you're not afraid of the Mexican bikers or Liam Fitzpatrick, so you're perfect for the job."

With a shaky voice, I ask, "How are you going to guarantee Dad's safety? You're putting him on the firing line." Jake's cold words are pushing me over to Logan's point of view, and suddenly I'm ready to just board _Panacea_ and sail around the world, forgetting about the hellhole called Neptune, California.

"I'm giving you an opportunity for a fresh start. It's not going to be risk-free after what you've done."

Logan shouts, "After what _we've_ done? You covered up evidence in your daughter's murder. You sent your son away rather than acknowledge your grandchild. You allied with a Russian mobster. God knows what you pricks in The Castle have done over the years. How many governments have you overthrown? How many federal contracts were diverted to Castle members? Half of you should be in prison, and the rest should be in a mental institution."

Jake turns to Cliff. "I was afraid this would happen."

Dad puts up a hand. "Just calm down. Everyone." He glares at Logan.

Logan's voice is strained. "Did you have my father killed?"

"Logan, no!" I grab his arm, but he pulls away.

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer," Jake replies coldly. "Your father was a bastard—a child-rapist and a murderer."

"Acknowledged," Logan says. "Did you kill him?"

Jake's jaw is clenched tightly. "I had nothing to do with Aaron Echolls' death, but I'm glad he's no longer in this world."

"Yeah, me too," Logan mutters.

I stare at Jake. "Did you send people to murder us after we left Neptune?" I'm careful not to say Chicago.

"What? Murder you? I didn't need to murder you, you were racking up serious prison time all on your own. Once I'd gotten the hard drive back, you weren't a significant threat to me."

"You sure about that? What about Gory? Did he try to track us down?"

Jake looks puzzled. "He was incensed when I told him you were the sheriff's daughter and that you were the one who solved Lilly's murder. I warned him that you were nosy and too smart for your own good."

I flinch at the characterization.

Jake says, "I told Gorya he'd better forget about you and he didn't bring it up again. And then he disappeared, and by then it was apparent that you weren't going to try to use the information on the hard drive to blackmail me."

"Too many crooked judges and powerful lawmakers in The Castle," Dad observes. "It almost seems pointless to try to tell the world when confronted by such a formidable foe."

Jake sniffs. "You're incredibly naive. The Castle gets things done. You need people who are willing to get their hands dirty to get anything accomplished in this world."

"And you've got the dirt to keep everyone in line," I retort. "Good job."

"I don't need to listen to this idealistic nonsense. Get me back to New York, please."

We all stare at each other in seething silence. Cliff clears his throat and says, "Let's focus on the future. Keith, I'm certain this is the best deal you'll ever get. Jake is asking for a two-year commitment on the Neptune's sheriff's position, and your continued silence about the contents of his hard drive."

Dad drums his fingers on the table. "How are you going to get rid of Vinnie and put me back in office?"

"The town council is going to get Vinnie to resign. We've got a videotape of him accepting a bribe from Liam Fitzpatrick. Ironclad evidence—if he doesn't step down and agree to testify against Fitzpatrick, they'll both end up in federal prison. In an emergency session, the town council will declare a state of emergency and install you as interim sheriff. As they did after Sheriff Lamb died."

"And then what happens when you hold a special election? Dad gets booted out again?" I ask.

"We're going to make sure that you run unopposed. Believe me, this is a lock."

I have no doubt that Jake has the power to make this happen. It's nauseating to contemplate that the electoral process is so flimsy and malleable.

Dad says, "What about budget? Based on what I've read, Neptune is in serious trouble. You'll need to double the police force and get federal help. And I'll need a cooperative district attorney's office, not enemies who'll resent me for covering up my daughter's misdeeds."

"The D.A. is extremely eager for you to resume your position. And the budget and federal help is already in the works. If you turn down this deal, I'll begin scouring the country for another candidate."

I think, _but you'd rather have Dad, a sheriff you think you can control._

Jake adds, "Don't forget. You have something to hold over me in return—everything you know about The Castle. I think I'm being more than fair."

We hear a knock on the door. Dad walks out of the plane again and returns a few moments later. "Jake, the three of us are going to talk this over with our attorney. We're going to give your proposal serious consideration. I'll have some sandwiches and coffee delivered to you while we talk."

Jake says stiffly, "It's not like I can go anywhere until you decide to return me to New York."

Cliff says, "Keith, I hope you decide to take the offer. We miss you in Neptune. And the town needs you."

°•°•°

In the hangar's office, we go through the documents one by one. Stellner's lawyer explains a few things, but for the most part the legalese is straightforward. It seems like a good deal.

Dad sighs and leans back in his chair. "Kane's desperate."

"I guess if he has billions tied up in real estate, he could lose everything," I comment.

"It's not just his investments. He's probably losing employees at Kane Software. People don't want to live in a town infested with gangs and drug lords," Dad muses.

I turn to Logan. "What do you think? You seemed pretty angry at him."

"And you didn't?" He shrugs. "I don't like him. I don't like The Castle, and the whole deal is pretty disgusting. Money trumps justice once again. Which probably seems pretty hypocritical for someone who grew up rich and privileged like I did. And of course I paid my way out of that mayhem charge for busting up a police car. But I guess it's a good deal. Whatever you guys decide."

I grab his arm and make him look at me. "No. Not 'whatever you guys decide.' What do you want to do?"

"I don't really want to go back, but I understand why we should take this deal." He sounds defeated. There's no enthusiasm for a triumphant return to 90909.

Dad says, "Logan, it'll be all right. You can reinvent yourself when we get home. Teach surfing and sailing in Neptune if you want. You accomplished a lot while we've been running—you can do whatever you want with your life."

"Right. I understand that we need to resolve our legal problems. I'd really like to complete my probation and get on with my life. You know, on the straight and narrow." There's just a hint of sarcastic Logan at the end. "And I know Veronica really wants to go back to college."

"I do. And although I'm sure that Neptune won't fully appreciate what my dad's going to do for them, I want him to get back to the job he loves."

Dad says, "It's not going to be the job I love for a long, long time. It's going to be hard work for at least a year. I'll need to wear a bulletproof vest 24/7, and I'm really going to have to be on my toes."

He's downplaying it, but I hear the underlying excitement. My dad is proud that they've come to him to solve their difficult problem. He's eager to be within the law, enforcing it rather than breaking it. And although the danger of the sheriff's job at this point is no laughing matter, I'm relieved that he'll no longer pay the price for my mistakes.

"Let's do it," I say, and they nod their agreement.

Relief settles on me like a blanket.

°•°•°

Dad and I are waiting at Dad's soon-to-be-ex-apartment for Logan, who volunteered to sail _Panacea_ to a storage facility in Luperón. In a few weeks, when things settle down a bit and all our legal wrangling is complete, we'll fly down and arrange for the boat to be sold, or delivered to us in California. Stellner's jet will fly us to Miami, where we'll catch a commercial flight to San Diego. In the meantime, Dad and I pack up all our belongings to be shipped to Neptune. The limo is due to arrive in about twenty minutes.

Logan's late, overdue by over an hour. I remember waiting for Dad in Chapel Hill, minutes stretching to hours, and overwhelming panic that he'd been captured. "Something's wrong," I say for the hundredth time. "We're going to be late. We'll miss the connecting flight to San Diego."

"Don't worry, honey. You know how things are here. He probably had to pay another bribe to a dockmaster, or settle some fee."

"I know something's wrong," I insist.

And then someone knocks on the door. I go to the door and listen—no code words. "Who's there?"

An unfamiliar voice says, "¿Senorita? Tengo un mensaje."

Dad steps behind the door and draws his gun. We may have signed paperwork promising to return to Neptune, but we're not safe yet. I open the door a crack and see a teenager extending an envelope to me. I fumble in my purse and give him 500 Dominican pesos, about ten dollars. He smiles broadly. "Gracias."

I tear open the envelope.

_"Veronica,_

_I'm sorry to be such a coward about this, but I can't face you. I can't bear to see you hurting._

_I can't go back to Neptune. I don't like myself there. And I'm afraid I'll never be enough for you, unless I'm all you've got. Unless I'm your only choice. It's not that I can't change, it's that the world won't let me change. Paparazzi and crazed fans will never let me forget that I'm the demon spawn of Aaron Echolls._

_I'll already be out on the ocean by the time you read this. Don't worry about me. I won't take crazy chances, and I'll watch the weather. You won't be able to find me, so please don't try. Although if anybody could ... no, scratch that. Please don't look for me._

_I'll always remember you and love you. You're beautiful and smart and courageous—I'll never forget how you climbed the mast and saved us. You deserve a wonderful life, a better life than you'd have with me. Good luck always._

_All my love,_

_Randy"_

I sag against Dad, weeping inconsolably.


	32. Chapter 32: Purgatory

**TITLE:** Purgatory (32/32)  
**AUTHOR:** **vanessagalore  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 4,801/153,800  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling and jenilyn831. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

* * *

_Keith's boss, Richard Stellner, demands to know who they are, and they tell him the entire story. Stellner offers to fly Jake Kane and Cliff McCormack down to the DR for a face-to-face meeting. At the meeting, they hammer out a deal for Keith to be Neptune's sheriff for two years in exchange for a pardon for all charges._

_They are packed and ready to go, and Logan doesn't show. He's taken off in 'Panacea,' telling Veronica in a note that he doesn't want to hurt her but he can't go back to Neptune._

* * *

Chapter 32: Purgatory

Neptune is dreary gray after the technicolor excitement of life on the run. Misery and unhappiness rule a town of fearful people. After a flurry of news stories both pro and con when we first came back, Neptune residents now seem united in helping Dad get the town back under control.

Dad looks tired all the time. In addition to doubling the size of the police force, he appoints a community representative to organize neighborhood watches, and slowly we take back the streets. Federal agents help patrol for drugs crossing into Neptune over the border, and that alone brings a new confidence to the community. In an effort to bolster transparency and to gather support, Dad holds news conferences three times a week, outlining goals and enumerating every bit of progress.

With Jake's help, Dad recruits police veterans from other cities at exorbitant salaries; every officer hired by Vinnie is transferred to Parking Enforcement, or fired outright if cause can be found. Faced with the prospect of Vinnie's testimony, Liam made a deal and he's rotting in federal prison on conspiracy charges. Vinnie's disappeared—the rumor is that he accepted Federal witness protection.

I'm back at Hearst. I study. I work out. I sleep. I visit Dad at the sheriff's department. And I peruse all the cruiser forums for news of a boat called _Panacea_ or any other Westerly Corsairs, since I assume painting a new name on the bow was one of Logan's first priorities. To my dismay, I find hundreds of boats named _'Panacea,'_ although none are the right type of vessel. But I have to eliminate each one from my list. Then I try accessing island databases to see if I can glean any information—permits, dockage charges, incident reports.

I set up Google alerts for every key word I can think of and contact P.I.s in Rio de Janiero, Buenos Aires, Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Sydney, as well as operatives in the Caribbean. Logan had learned about backtracking and false trails from us so he could even be still sailing just offshore from the Dominican Republic. And with solar panels and a watermaker, he could stay on the water for weeks, maybe even months if he's very careful with his food supplies.

Some nights I imagine him crossing the Indian Ocean, keeping a watchful eye for Somali pirates. Or he's rounding Cape Horn, battling hurricane-force winds. Maybe he's in Tahiti, bedding some exotic woman to try to forget me.

No. I don't think Logan's doing that. I think he's grieving, the way that I am.

Backup seems worried about me. He lies next to me when I study in our new apartment, apparently asleep, but immediately alert at the slightest noise.

Mac and Wallace are more overt. They drag me to movies and concerts until I start ignoring their calls. I'd rather just wallow. Gradually, they stop calling, and it's just a quick wave across the food court once in a while.

Why didn't I realize what Logan was planning? He'd practically told me. And that morning when he'd awoken me to make love ... that expression that had confused me then had been sorrow, the same look that confronts me when I look in the mirror today.

And I'm _angry_ at him, furious that he did this without discussing it with me. Would I have stayed with him if I'd known he was going to sail away?

Maybe.

Days turn into weeks, and then into months. I still feel like a stranger here, and although my hair's grown longer and reverted back to its normal color, I barely recognize the face in my mirror. Old habits die hard: in restaurants, I always take a table in the back so I can watch the entrance. I've got a new Glock and a concealed carry permit—apparently the judge who approved the permit is an old 'friend' of Jake's. I can't help it: I use cash for everything and make my calls on a disposable prepaid phone. I don't wear an iPod, preferring to stay on high alert at all times. I push myself to run and stay strong, just in case.

I set up a honeytrap on my Facebook, hoping to catch Logan's ISP when he clicks on a tracker concealed by a transparent pixel. But I'm overwhelmed by hits from curious people the world over, and I give up on trapping him that way. My relationship status stays set at 'in a relationship,' and every few days, I post updates that are only visible to him, begging him to contact me and come home.

I place one cryptic ad after another in the New York Craigslist 'Casual Encounters' section, and try to imagine him logging on in an Internet café and chuckling at my light-hearted missives that all end the same way: "The weather's beautiful here. I miss you."

At spring break, I take a cheap flight back to the DR, to see if he's hiding there. Just three and a half months after we'd left, and already most of the cruisers in Puerta Plata have moved on. There's no one I remember from our time there. Still, I ask if anyone's seen him. I give the dockmaster a hefty bribe, but he swears that he hasn't seen 'Randy' since we left. I don't have a photo of him with his platinum blond hair and beard, but I make a reasonable facsimile in Photoshop and take it around to the stores we'd frequented. No one's seen him since we left back in December. I contact Miguel, Dad's friend on the police force, and ask him to watch for Randy.

It's not that I don't understand why he did it. He'd changed so much. He wasn't really Logan Echolls any more. I remember him telling me he wanted to 'marry me' and have a family some day, and how right that felt to me, even if I didn't tell him at the time.

I drag myself back to Neptune and concentrate on my classes at Hearst. I sign up for summer session instead of looking for a job.

Got to keep busy.

One day, Weevil shows up on a new motorcycle and tells me we're going for a ride. He drives up the PCH at an alarming speed, and the wind on my face feels almost like it did on _Panacea_. He disliked Logan the most of all my friends, but now Weevil seems to be the only one who gets how I feel. Maybe it's because of his prison term: he understands what it's like to be a criminal, to lose everything you care about. He's experienced that one-second-too-long stare that I get all too often. And maybe he understands that Neptune feels very strange to me these days.

So we ride together.

He says, "Maybe you should start doing favors again."

"No favors," because my heart's not in it anymore.

Weevil and I are hanging out in the Hearst courtyard and someone catcalls, "Hey, that's the Sheriff's daughter, think she'll give us a cheer?" And later that day, I get a text from him—'Now I think *you* owe me'—with a photo of a car with two flat tires. It gets a chuckle out of me, and then I'm weeping. I truly don't give a shit about the video anymore. I just want Logan to come home.

Or to let me know where he is, so I can go to him.

At least once a day I think, _He could be dead, and I would never know it._

Dad says to me one night, "Do you think he did it so you'd mope around for the rest of your life? He wanted to give you a chance at happiness. I think Logan wanted to come back with us, but he was too afraid of what his life would be like. And Veronica, he wasn't wrong. The paparazzi would have hounded him. I believe it's possible he might have fallen into drinking and getting into trouble again."

I turn on him. "No! He wouldn't. He'd changed."

"Yes. He did change. But he knew what his life had been like, and I think it was an act of survival to refuse to come back."

"I would have helped him. We could have made it work."

"You can't love someone if you don't love yourself first, and that's what he figured out. He didn't love himself here."

I storm out of the room as he calls, "Veronica? Honey?"

But I'm secretly afraid that he's right.

One day follows the next, misery bleeding from week to week, and I know everyone thinks I should snap out of it, but I don't.

°•°•°

As May approaches, I start to obsess. The sheriff's election is scheduled for the second Tuesday, and as Jake promised, Dad runs unopposed, but I'm nauseated and tense the whole day, worrying that something's going to go wrong. But it's a landslide, with just about a hundred write-in votes for Vinnie Van Lowe, as well as more than a few for Don Lamb. _Sure, zombie Don Lamb is just what this town needs,_ I think.

The next day, I do something I've been putting off for months. I go to Navarro Wrecking and apologize in person to Weevil's uncle. He has an ugly burn scar on his left hand, and I tell him if he ever needs anything, he has a free investigator for life. I promise to talk to Dad about getting the Navarros a contract with the city to tow parking violators, and Mr. Navarro seems pleased.

Finals end, and now I have too much time on my hands waiting for the summer session to start.

Last year at this time, we were driving through Texas and just heading into Arkansas. We were going through prepaid phones like water, and trying not to attract attention. Dad was buying us weapons, we were disguising ourselves, and ... and ...

Logan and I were getting close. We were being honest with each other.

I'm drawn inexorably to the Greyhound station, a dank and smelly hellhole in the worst part of town, and I sit in the waiting room watching people getting on and off buses and wondering what they're running from. Most of the passengers look impoverished and pessimistic, resigned to traveling in the least comfortable way possible, and I know that's what I'd looked like too. I remember desperately trying to get away from Brown Suit Guy, completely afraid that I'd be caught and tortured into revealing Dad and Logan's location. I stumble home and fall asleep, tormented by dreams of endless bus rides and men pounding on windows.

The next day I go to Santa Monica Pier and wander around. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm restless and nervous, and I can't seem to concentrate enough to read a book or watch television. So I ride the Ferris wheel and buy cotton candy—one bite and it goes in the garbage. Same thing with a hot dog. But everyone seems happy here.

I flinch when I pass by the shooting gallery in the arcade, but it gives me an idea. The next day, I drive to a shooting range and I empty my gun into the targets, over and over. Telling myself that this is just being prudent, with the danger of Dad's new job, I realize after an hour of shooting that I'm actually a pretty good shot. I examine the human outlines on the target sheets and note the competent groupings. Neat little holes in the paper, right where I'd intended them to be, and in real life it'd be arteries spouting blood and dirtbags bleeding out on the way to the hospital.

_Him or me._

The next day I go to Dog Beach to watch the sailboats in the bay. One of the boats looks to be almost the same size as _Panacea_, except with a maroon sail, and I pretend that Logan's on it, sailing here as a way to be close to me. When it tacks through the wind, I imagine the lines whipping through the blocks as the sail flutters and then catches, pulling the boat in a new direction. He'd be confidently walking up to the bow despite the heel of the boat, adjusting a line here or there and smiling back at me, because the boat would be going infinitesimally faster. He'd explain something about the cunningham or the halyard. And I'd smile, because: men and their jargon.

I remember how _Panacea_ felt rumbling through rough water or slicing through the glassy stillness of calm seas: a journey of learning to let go, to trust each other when things got difficult.

My face scrunches up at the thought of him with an unkempt beard and hair practically in dreadlocks after months at sea without a real shower. His face would be windburned and reddened, roughened by the elements. Callouses sprout on callouses, and sailing gloves shred after too many blustery nights and ropes that don't cooperate. I worry that he's not eating a balanced diet. But he is finally Randy, not Logan, and I feel his peace, even though he's probably half a world away by now.

Would I have been happy being Vicky?

I return to Dog Beach the next day, and the next after that, until it becomes a routine. One day the sailboats are forming a ragged line in the water, and then I hear a distant gunshot as the boats surge into a race. Boats tack desperately for an advantage, the sails flipping 90° with precision.

The boats all change direction as they reach a certain point, and I remember Logan telling me about triangular racing courses, with boats sailing a predetermined route around buoys. "Rich assholes with their toys, trying to beat other rich assholes," he'd said disparagingly. It was so different from the survival sailing that we'd done—worlds apart from harnessing the wind to get somewhere, to get to our new life, to make a new life for ourselves.

One boat seems destined to win, with the majority of the pack close behind. A sole sailboat takes a different path, and I wonder if they're having trouble. They'd been struggling at the start and were way behind, although they've worked hard to catch up to the pack. None of the other racers follow them when they turn opposite to everyone else. It looks like they're just confused about the course. But then they turn again, and I see that they've caught a fresh wind that the other boats can't take advantage of.

Now the solitary sailboat is screaming along, in front of all the other boats. The other vessels have to scramble to stay out of their way, some arcane rule of the sea determining who has the right-of-way, and the outlying boat has somehow taken advantage and won the race. I can see people jumping up and down and high-fiving each other on the errant boat; they've won by following a different path.

And not giving up when everything seemed lost.

_I will find him._

°•°•°

The next day, the weather forecasts rain, with a 'high dewpoint and the possibility of hail and strong winds.' I squint at the sunny sky; maybe some storm clouds are hovering over the desert to the east, but there's no way it's going to rain on the coast.

Except when I arrive at Dog Beach, the air itself is soaking wet and the sky is blackening. I step out of the car and walk to my usual vantage point. No sailboats today and the park is deserted; I'm the only one who ignored the forecast. The sea roils, and oppressive, billowing clouds obscure the sun. Thunder rumbles, and the skies open up and dump water on me. Kicking off my shoes, I walk to the water's edge.

Wind buffets me as I wade into the water: an onshore gust tries to push me back to land, and I stagger and stumble through turbulent froth. The temperature has dropped and I'm shivering. Within seconds, I'm soaked through and freezing cold, but I hold my ground.

I remember standing on the water's edge last year, waterlogged and despairing, with the turbulent sea threatening to take me and sweep me away for all my sins ... then the rains in North Carolina driving me home into Logan's arms—hitting bottom and finally telling Dad everything ... and the storm in _Panacea_, when at last I'd found my courage again.

The rain pummels me, washes me, purifies me. I've been broken down and reborn this past year. I may not be Vicky, but Veronica has changed.

I _will_ find him.

The rain turns to hail, stinging me harshly, so I push my sodden hair out of my eyes and trudge back to my car.

And that's when Gory grabs me.

°•°•°

Gory drags me to a dilapidated maroon van, dented and marked with putty patches and primer. My old friend, Brown Suit Guy, is waiting inside the open sliding door. Gory pushes me kicking and screaming into the back, and Brown Suit Guy slaps me hard, stunning me into silence. There's no one to hear my screams anyway: everyone with any sense stayed indoors today.

They muscle me down to the floor and get my hands duct-taped behind my back. Gory yanks at the sliding door and then, cursing, finally slams it shut. He clambers into the drivers seat and starts the engine with a roar. We jerk backward, and I'm thrown from side to side as the van turns and then moves forward. I hear the rain tapping on the roof and the wipers thudding; a loud thunderclap shakes the van.

I crane my neck and see Brown Suit Guy rooting through my backpack and pulling out the new Glock. He tucks it into the back of his pants after admiring the upgraded magazine release button that Dad had insisted on. I say, "My dad is expecting me to call. He's the sheriff—there'll be an all-points bulletin as soon as I don't check in."

Brown Suit Guy shrugs. "I don't think so. He izz busy, busy, busy. So many bad peoples in this town. He doesn't have time for his pretty daughter." He finds my cell phone and scrolls through my recent calls. "See? You have not called him in a long time. ... Not too many calls, you need more friends." He eyes my wet clothing. "I think you are a little crazy, walking into the ocean today, but you make it easy for us to take you."

"Why are you helping Gory? Aren't you afraid of Sergei?"

"So you know about Sergei? You are a smart girl, not just pretty."

"I know he's going to kill Gory, and he'll kill you too if you help him."

"I take that chance. Gorya is the son of my sister—how you say? Nephew. We are very close. Many years ago, Gorya warned me when Sergei was coming to kill me, and I owe him my life." He spouts off a few sentences in Russian to Gory, who replies in Russian as well. "Da. Okay, little girl, now we tape the legs." I hear the duct-tape ripping and, although I kick and struggle, he just chuckles and sits on my legs to finish the job.

_Now I'm really fucked. _"What are you going to do with me?"

Gory says, "Hey, you want to shut up back there? We could tape your mouth if you like."

_Maybe you should just lay back and enjoy it. Lay back ... you do have nice pom-poms. Lay back ..._

No! I'm not giving up. "What good does it do to hurt me? Your father's seen the video."

Gory snorts. "Hurt you? No, a little more than that. It's kind of a family tradition. We kill people who fuck with us."

Brown Suit Guy adds, "And you kill my friend in Chicago. Why? _Yobanaya suka. _Stupid bitch."

"I didn't mean to," I protest, and then I wish I could take it back. Because, finally, I'm very glad I killed Anatoly Ponomarev in the gazebo that night.

And I'll kill these two if I get a chance.

°•°•°

Shivering from my wet clothes, I struggle to keep track of where we are. Point Loma Boulevard to Sunset Cliffs Drive, and now I think we're on the 8 heading east toward the Coronado Bridge. The wipers are working hard to keep up with the rain. I hear water splashing as we drive through puddles, and Gory curses the van's shitty defroster. I'm so cold, _so cold_. My body's beginning to cramp from being tied up; I have to do something _soon._ I have to think of something, have to think, have to think. I try to name every exit as we drive. Got to keep track, got to keep thinking—

Because if I don't, I start to remember my rape nightmare.

_Naked on a frigid metal table. Gory fondling himself and coming closer. You do have nice pom-poms ... _

No. Stop. We must be at the exit for 'Pacific Highway.' Then 'Camino del Rio.' The Coronado is coming up in about six miles. Maybe five exits between here and there. I rack my brain: 'Bachman Place' is next. When we get to the Coronado, I'll hear the steel plates under the tires.

_You know what you should do? Just lay back and enjoy it._

I'd give anything for the porcelain sanctuary I'd had in Chapel Hill, with Logan's arms wrapped around me in the tub as I'd shivered and shook.

I'll never see Logan again.

Gory starts speaking in Russian again, and Brown Suit Guy walks up to the front to discuss something with him.

This is it. This is my chance.

I use my shoulder to push the wet hair out of my eyes. Rolling over, I look around the van for anything that could be used as a weapon. Empty buckets stacked near the back door; they might as well be a mile away. Folded tarps on the van floor—no help at all. But my Glock is right there, in the waistband of Brown Suit Guy.

They're not paying attention to me. I'm nothing to them, and I'm not a threat. Just a sodden, little girl, a pathetic nuisance that needs to be eliminated as a warning to all the other cockroaches that might get in their way.

_You'd think they'd have learned after Chicago._

We're still moving; we've probably passed 'Cabrillo Freeway' and 'Texas Street'. There'll be a traffic slowdown at the Coronado Bridge; there always is this time of day. I need speed, I need the van hurtling along.

So it's now.

Now.

Right now.

_Somebody might get hurt. Please, I hope no one gets hurt. Except these two fuckers._

_Them or me. Them or me._

As quietly as I can, I use the side of the van to push myself up on my feet. Brown Suit Guy is leaning over Gory's shoulder, pointing at something through the water streaming down the windshield. I throw myself at him, spinning around so my taped hands can reach for the gun. But I miss and Brown Suit Guy stumbles into Gory, causing the van to swerve wildly. Horns blare and tires screech, but there isn't the sound of metal crashing that I'd dreaded.

"Fuck!" Gory screams. I try to roll myself over and flail at Brown Suit Guy—_gun, gotta get the gun—_but the van lurches again and I lose my balance, falling toward the passenger seat.

Brown Suit Guy turns and backhands me with all his strength, and I fly backward.

And everything goes black.

°•°•°

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Gauze on my eyes, or something. Maybe fog? And my head hurts.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

I try to raise my head up, and it's excruciating. I hear a squeaky little moan—is that me?

"Nurse!"

Blackness again.

°•°•°

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

So annoying. Worse than the goddamned one-arm bandits.

No, we're not in the DR anymore. I think.

I try to open my eyes, and the haze has cleared. Dad's concerned face looms over me. "Veronica? Veronica! Try to stay with us."

I swallow, and gag on the tube in my throat. My fingers twitch and some kind of sound emerges from me. Dad looks worried. He's scared. I'm scared.

Dad says in a soothing voice, "Don't worry, honey. Please don't try to talk just yet. Gory's dead; the other guy too. Yuri Grabianko—Sergei's brother-in-law, apparently they've been feuding for years. Near as we can tell, you did something to make the van swerve, and then a CHP officer noticed that the van had been stolen. The cop chased them, and they took off. With the wet roads and the high speed, they skidded straight into a tractor trailer. Gory and the other man were dead on impact. You've got a few broken bones and you've been in a coma for ten days. Your head got hit hard."

Panic: _a coma? Fuck. Fuck._

He squeezes my arm. "You're going to be just fine. I promise you, you're going to be fine."

I want to tell him: 'Brown suit guy hit me. I was trying to get the gun. That's the last thing that I remember.' But I can't put the words together, and I'm so tired. So tired.

And then doctors come in, and I let the blackness take over again.

°•°•°

I exist in a jangled routine of blood pressure checks and doctors pulling up my eyelids to flash a light in my eyes. Sudden pinpricks of sensation score the soles of my feet. Why won't they leave me alone? I have a sore throat from a tube in my esophagus. Some fucker keeps squeezing my fingernails, and there's a platoon of white-coated medical students who keep waking me up when I'd rather just sleep. And the beeping doesn't stop.

Tired, so tired. The light hurts my eyes—so much easier to just keep them closed.

A nurse adjusts an IV in my hand, and then later, a doctor looms over me and tells me to cough. I gag as the feeding tube is pulled out and the pain in my throat is exquisite. Then the nurse is sitting me up and encouraging me to drink a little water. I splutter and collapse back onto the pillows, closing my eyes and embracing the nothingness.

°•°•°

He's here.

So I must have died after all.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

He's here.

He must see that I'm awake, because now he's hovering just like Dad. His blond hair is longer, swept back in a ponytail, his beard is a little shaggy, and he's tanner than I've ever seen him, with paler skin around the eyes where his sunglasses block the rays.

I still can't put a sentence together, with my throat scraped raw and my brain completely addled. But I manage, "Randy?"

And he smiles. "I came as soon as I heard.

"Checking on me?"

"Yep, every time I was in a port I read all the newspaper stories about the great job Sheriff Mars was doing here. I was in Bonaire when I saw the article about the accident, and I had to call Jake Kane to get me a passport and a plane ticket from Caracas. It took a few days." He touches my cheek, the way he always does.

With an effort, I say, "Not an accident."

"That's what the newspapers said at first. Veronica Mars, intrepid girl detective, seriously injured in a car wreck."

"Gory."

"I know. Your dad told me the whole story."

"Jake helped?"

"I blackmailed him, told him I'd post my copy of the hard drive on the Internet."

"You don't have the hard drive, silly." It's the first complete sentence I've said since I first woke, and it exhausts me. I close my eyes and try to gather my strength, because this is _important._

Logan laughs. "Jake didn't know that. I did it just like you taught me, smarty-pants."

"How's _Panacea_?" I croak.

"She's great. She misses you. _I _miss you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Veronica. I should have been here to protect you—"

I shake my head, which is a mistake. Blinding pain, my whole skull on fire, and I have to close my eyes for a minute. I feel his hand squeezing mine: he knows I'm hurting badly. When the nerve endings stop screaming, I whisper, "Gonna stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

"Figure it out."

"Yeah, we will."

* * *

_A/N: Please take a moment to let me know what you thought of my story._


	33. Chapter 33: Postlude

**TITLE:** Postlude (33/33)  
**AUTHOR:** **vanessagalore  
****CHARACTERS:** Veronica, Logan, Keith  
**WORD COUNT:** 1,283/155,100  
**RATING:** PG13 for this chapter  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.  
**SPOILERS:** Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.  
**WARNINGS:** Cursing.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by celtic-flicka. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

So yeah, you all were very adamant that the story needed an epilogue. I'm not certain if it's better with or without the added part below. I'm sure you'll let me know. My original intent was to leave the story knowing that they were going to have to work hard to stay together, and that might be a very long journey.

* * *

_Veronica wallows in Neptune without Logan. Almost unconsciously, she retraces her flight from justice as the one year anniversary of their departure approaches. She begins to make a routine of going to Dog Beach, and Gory's able to kidnap her. She manages to cause a car accident, which kills Gory and his accomplice, Brown Suit Guy. She wakes up in the hospital after suffering a coma, and eventually Logan returns, vowing that he'll stay.  
_

* * *

Chapter 33: Postlude

Two days after he comes back to Neptune, the paparazzi find him. Logan's kiss when he walks in my hospital room is perfunctory, and he seems distracted.

I'm still a little muzzy from all the painkillers, but I _know_ something's wrong. "What's going on? Talk to me. Goddammit, Logan."

He cracks his neck and winces. "The paparazzi spotted me leaving your dad's apartment yesterday. They followed me here, so..." Logan shrugs and drags his fingers through his blond curls. "I guess I'll be the top story on ET tonight. Or even worse, TMZ. Fucking bottom-feeders."

"Do you want to leave Neptune? I mean ... I'll be okay. I'll come find you when everything calms down."

"No! I should have been here. This is my fault—"

"Please don't say that. You know that I understand why you didn't come back with us. And there's no way that this is your fault."

The nurse walks in to check my vitals and change the IV bag. She frowns and glances at Logan. "Heart rate is elevated. Are you upsetting my patient?"

"I'm sorry," Logan says. "Maybe I'll come back later, and let her get some rest for now."

"No, stay. Get Cliff on the phone for me." I nod at the cell phone beside the bed, a new prepaid disposable of course. While he's scrolling for Cliff's name in the contacts list, I say to the nurse, "I swear I'll be all right. I need him here. We just got some bad news."

She looks dubious. "I'll check on you in a few minutes. Young man, you need to take better care of her."

"Yeah, I do." He hands me the phone.

"Cliff. I need a favor. Get out your Rolodex."

°•°•°

After a long meeting with two of the very finest Hollywood publicists and a top entertainment attorney, we make a plan. It's simple really: Logan will become the most boring interview in the world. When asked about being a fugitive, he'll enthusiastically turn the conversation around to the mundane details of sailing.

He practices a few times with the publicists, talking about rigging, boat design, and the vagaries of weather in expansive detail, complete with every bit of technical jargon he can muster. I understand at least 50% of what he's saying, and I'm bored out of my mind. The publicists suggest hiring a social media expert to flood the Internet with arcane sailing and surfing anecdotes—"crowd out the salacious stuff with a new story." These public relations experts seem completely discomfited to be helping someone to be forgettable in this manner.

Logan expresses a desire to make his name change permanent, and the attorney agrees to start the paperwork.

After they all leave, I say, "When did you get so mature?"

"I didn't."

"No, you did. I think this could work."

Logan looks thoughtful. "You think I should go back to school? Maybe not Hearst, but somewhere else."

"What do you want to do?"

"I liked teaching little kids in the DR. The adults were a pain in the ass, but the kids were fun."

"You don't have to decide right away." I smile. "You know, I had a crazy idea."

He looks at me expectantly.

"Why don't you keep living on the boat? Then if things get too ... intense, you can sail away for a while. I can live there part of the time."

Logan shakes his head. "I don't want to be apart from you again."

"Okay, I'll run away with you when you need to, and the rest of the time you can stay with me and Dad in the apartment. We're a family, remember?"

"Hmm. I think I'd really like it if you lived on the boat with me. All the time, like we did in the DR."

And I realize that I'd really like it too.

°•°•°

So we do it. Logan arranges to have the boat delivered from South America to California, and by the time _Panacea_ arrives at the Neptune marina, I'm back at Dad's apartment, still in a wheelchair, but glad to be out of the hospital. Although everyone assures me that I'll be all right eventually, I'm facing months of rehab and physical therapy.

Logan's spending too much time in the apartment taking care of me; I can see the shadow of how he was when he had to hide in Chapel Hill. I make him go surfing, and when the paparazzi swarm him on the beach, he runs up to them with a smile and begins a lecture on the similarities of surfing and sailing. It kills him at first to be nice to the tabloids, but then our ploy starts to work, and the gossip rags begins to lose interest.

The name change is approved, and I'm there in the courtroom to applaud when he legally becomes Randall Donahue.

_Panacea_ attracts some attention at first, but gradually everyone starts to just not care. By the time I'm fitted with a walking cast, there is no one to notice when I finally return to our boat. Randy's been working on her, refinishing all the intricate woodwork and refitting her to be a luxury sailboat, something that we can live on semi-permanently. I can't manage a sail on her yet, not with my wrist in a splint and a broken ankle. The doctors warned me that another blow to the head would be very bad, so I have to be careful. But we can sit together on _Panacea's_ deck while tied up at the marina, and everything starts to feel pretty damn good again.

Occasionally, Dad joins us for sunset cocktails, and we toast the resurgence of Neptune. It's never been a good city in which to be poor, but now the depressed property values, as well as Dad's efforts to clean up the criminal element, have attracted new businesses to relocate here, so there are job openings and residents of all classes start to prosper. And Kane Software spins off a tech division to create hardware to run their programs. Jake wins again, it seems, but so does Neptune.

One day, Randy tells us his new idea: he's going to start a program to teach sailing and surfing to inner city kids—a way to work on self-esteem and self-reliance. Swimming lessons, and CPR and first aid classes are all part of his plan. And tutors, to help the kids with their homework. We twist Jake Kane's arm, and he donates $500,000 seed money in exchange for the program being called 'Lilly's Kids.'

In October, my physical therapist clears me for sailing, and we cast off and head for blue water. My body feels creaky from disuse, and even though it's calm, I pull out my old harness and clip myself to the boat. My sea legs take a while to come back, but after a couple hours, I'm leaning with the boat, the wind whipping the words out of my mouth as we sail.

There is nothing but ocean and sky around us. I watch him at the helm. He is still one with the boat. He had all that time alone on _Panacea_, with nothing but a journal to keep him company.

He won't let me read it yet, but he'll have to one of these days. I am still Veronica Mars after all, and I have to know everything.

When the sun starts to disappear below the horizon, both of us are bone-tired, with skin chapped from the wind and salt spray, and I see him looking at some puffy clouds to the west.

Randy says, "I think it might rain."

"Yeah, it might."

And that's okay.


End file.
